.  <,:  iJiiKiuilii,:. 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


WASHINGTON 
SQUARE 

By     Henry      James 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

1901 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1880,  by 

HKNRT  JAMES,  JR. 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 

AU  right* 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGB 
HKNKY    JAMES FrOUtispitCC 

HE  HAD  A  SWEET,  LIGHT  TENOR  VOICE 67 

"  DON'T  LET  HER  MARRT  HIM  !" 110 

"MY  DEAR  GOOD  GIRL!"  HE  EXCLAIMED,  LOOKING  DOWN  AT  HIS 

PRIZE.     AND  THEN  HE  LOOKED  UP  AGAIN  RATHER  VAGUELY.  .  .  .   154 
"  I  SHALL  REGARD  IT  ONLY  AS  A.  LOAN,"  SHE  SAID. 188 


8  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

combine  two  recognized  sources  of  credit.  It  be- 
longs to  the  realm  of  the  practical,  which  in  the 
United  States  is  a  great  recommendation ;  and  it  is 
touched  by  the  light  of  science — a  merit  appreciated 
in  a  community  in  which  the  love  of  knowledge  has 
not  always  been  accompanied  by  leisure  and  oppor- 
tunity. 

It  was  an  element  in  Doctor  Sloper's  reputation 
that  his  learning  and  his  skill  were  very  evenly 
balanced;  he  was  what  you  might  call  a  scholarly 
doctor,  and  yet  there  was  nothing  abstract  in  his 
remedies — he  always  ordered  you  to  take  something. 
Though  he  was  felt  to  be  extremely  thorough,  he 
was  not  uncomfortably  theoretic ;  and  if  he  some- 
times explained  matters  rather  more  minutely  than 
might  seem  of  use  to  the  patient,  he  never  went  so 
far  (like  some  practitioners  one  had  heard  of)  as  to 
trust  to  the  explanation  alone,  but  always  left  behind 
him  an  inscrutable  prescription.  There  were  some 
doctors  that  left  the  prescription  without  offering 
any  explanation  at  all ;  and  he  did  not  belong  to  that 
class  either,  which  was  after  all  the  most  vulgar.  It 
will  be  seen  that  I  am  describing  a  clever  man ;  and 
this  is  really  the  reason  why  Doctor  Sloper  had  be- 
come a  local  celebrity. 

At  the  time  at  which  we  are  chiefly  concerned 
with  him  he  was  some  fifty  years  of  age,  and  his 
popularity  was  at  its  height.  He  was  very  witty, 
and  he  passed  in  the  best  society  of  New  York  for 
a  man  of  the  world  —  which,  indeed,  he  was,  in  a 
very  sufficient  degree.  I  hasten  to  add,  to  antici- 
pate possible  misconception,  that  he  was  not  the 
least  of  a  charlatan.  He  was  a  thoroughly  honest 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  9 

man — honest  in  a  degree  of  which  he  had  perhaps 
lacked  the  opportunity  to  give  the  complete  meas- 
ure ;  and,  putting  aside  the  great  good  -  nature  of 
the  circle  in  which  he  practised,  which  was  rather 
fond  of  boasting  that  it  possessed  the  "brightest" 
doctor  in  the  country,  he  daily  justified  his  claim  to 
the  talents  attributed  to  him  by  the  popular  voice. 
He  was  an  observer,  even  a  philosopher,  and  to  be 
bright  was  so  natural  to  him,  and  (as  the  popular 
voice  said)  came  so  easily,  that  he  never  aimed  at 
mere  effect,  and  had  none  of  the  little  tricks  and 
pretensions  of  second-rate  reputations.  It  must  be 
confessed  that  fortune  had  favored  him,  and  that  he 
had  found  the  path  to  prosperity  very  soft  to  his 
tread.  He  had  married,  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven, 
for  love,  a  very  charming  girl,  Miss  Catherine  Har- 
rington, of  New  York,  who,  in  addition  to  her 
charms,  had  brought  him  a  solid  dowry.  Mrs.  Sloper 
was  amiable,  graceful,  accomplished,  elegant,  and  in 
1820  she  had  been  one  of  the  pretty  girls  of  the 
small  but  promising  capital  which  clustered  about 
the  Battery  and  overlooked  the  Bay,  and  of  which 
the  uppermost  boundary  was  indicated  by  the  grassy 
way-sides  of  Canal  Street.  Even  at  the  age  of  twen- 
ty-seven Austin  Sloper  had  made  his  mark  sufficient- 
ly to  mitigate  the  anomaly  of  his  having  been  chosen 
among  a  dozen  suitors  by  a  young  woman  of  high 
fashion,  who  had  ten  thousand  dollars  of  income  and 
the  most  charming  eyes  in  the  island  of  Manhattan. 
These  eyes,  and  some  of  their  accompaniments,  were 
for  about  five  years  a  source  of  extreme  satisfaction 
to  the  young  physician,  who  was  both  a  devoted  and 
a  very  happy  husband. 


10  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

The  fact  of  his  having  married  a  rich  woman 
made  no  difference  in  the  line  he  had  traced  for 
himself,  and  he  cultivated  his  profession  with  as 
definite  a  purpose  as  if  he  still  had  no  other  re- 
sources than  his  fraction  of  the  modest  patrimony 
which,  on  his  father's  death,  he  had  shared  with 
his  brothers  and  sisters.  This  purpose  had  not 
been  preponderantly  to  make  money — it  had  been 
rather  to  learn  something  and  to  do  something.  To 
learn  something  interesting,  and  to  do  something 
useful — this  was,  roughly  speaking,  the  programme 
he  had  sketched,  and  of  which  the  accident  of  his 
wife  having  an  income  appeared  to  him  in  no  degree 
to  modify  the  validity.  He  was  fond  of  his  practice, 
and  of  exercising  a  skill  of  which  he  was  agreeably 
conscious,  and  it  was  so  patent  a  truth  that  if  he  were 
not  a  doctor  there  was  nothing  else  he  could  be,  that 
a  doctor  he  persisted  in  being,  in  the  best  possible 
conditions.  Of  course  his  easy  domestic  situation 
saved  him  a  good  deal  of  drudgery,  and  his  wife's 
affiliation  to  the  "  best  people  "  brought  him  a  good 
many  of  those  patients  whose  symptoms  are,  if  not 
more  interesting  in  themselves  than  those  of  the 
lower  orders,  at  least  more  consistently  displayed. 
He  desired  experience,  and  in  the  course  of  twenty 
years  he  got  a  great  deal.  It  must  be  added  that  it 
came  to  him  in  some  forms  which,  whatever  might 
have  been  their  intrinsic  value,  made  it  the  reverse 
of  welcome.  His  first  child,  a  little  boy  of  extraor- 
dinary promise,  as  the  Doctor,  who  was  not  addict- 
ed to  easy  enthusiasm,  firmly  believed,  died  at  three 
years  of  age,  in  spite  of  everything  that  the  mother's 
tenderness  and  the  father's  science  could  invent  to 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  11 

save  him.  Two  years  later  Mrs.  Sloper  gave  birth 
to  a  second  infant  —  an  infant  of  a  sex  which  ren- 
dered the  poor  child,  to  the  Doctor's  sense,  an  inade- 
quate substitute  for  his  lamented  first-born,  of  whom 
he  had  promised  himself  to  make  an  admirable  man. 
The  little  girl  was  a  disappointment;  but  this  was 
not  the  worst.  A  week  after  her  birth  the  young 
mother,  who,  as  the  phrase  is,  had  been  doing  well, 
suddenly  betrayed  alarming  symptoms,  and  before 
another  week  had  elapsed  Austin  Sloper  was  a  wid- 
ower. 

For  a  man  whose  trade  was  to  keep  people  alive 
he  had  certainly  done  poorly  in  his  own  family  ;  and 
a  bright  doctor  who  within  three  years  loses  his  wife 
and  his  little  boy  should  perhaps  be  prepared  to  see 
either  his  skill  or  his  affection  impugned.  Our 
friend,  however,  escaped  criticism ;  that  is,  he  es- 
caped all  criticism  but  his  own,  which  was  much 
the  most  competent  and  most  formidable.  He 
walked  under  the  weight  of  this  very  private  cen- 
sure for  the  rest  of  his  days,  and  bore  forever  the 
scars  of  a  castigation  to  which  the  strongest  hand  he 
knew  had  treated  him  on  the  night  that  followed  his 
wife's  death.  The  world,  which,  as  I  have  said,  ap- 
preciated him,  pitied  him  too  much  to  be  ironical ; 
his  misfortune  made  him  more  interesting,  and  even 
helped  him  to  be  the  fashion.  It  was  observed  that 
even  medical  families  cannot  escape  the  more  insid- 
ious forms  of  disease,  and  that,  after  all,  Doctor  Slo- 
per had  lost  other  patients  besides  the  two  I  have 
mentioned;  which  constituted  an  honorable  prece- 
dent. His  little  girl  remained  to  him ;  and  though 
she  was  not  what  he  had  desired,  he  proposed  to 


12  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

himself  to  make  the  best  of  her.  He  had  on  hand 
a  stock  of  unexpended  authority,  by  which  the  child, 
in  its  early  years,  profited  largely.  .  She  had  been 
named,  as  a  matter  of  course,  after  her  poor  mother, 
and  even  in  her  most  diminutive  babyhood  the  Doc- 
tor never  called  her  anything  but  Catherine.  She 
grew  up  a  very  robust  and  healthy  child,  and  her 
father,  as  he  looked  at  her,  often  said  to  himself  that, 
such  as  she  was,  he  at  least  need  have  no  fear  of  los- 
ing her.  I  say  "  such  as  she  was,"  because,  to  tell 
the  truth—  But  this  is  a  truth  of  which  I  will  de- 
fer the  telling. 


II. 

WHEN  the  child  was  about  ten  years  old,  he  in- 
vited his  sister,  Mrs.  Penniman,  to  come  and  stay 
with  him.  The  Miss  Slopers  had  been  but  two 
in  number,  and  both  of  them  had  married  early 
in  life.  The  younger,  Mrs.  Almond  by  name,  was 
the  wife  of  a  prosperous  merchant  and  the  mother 
of  a  blooming  family.  She  bloomed  herself,  indeed, 
and  was  a  comely,  comfortable,  reasonable  woman, 
and  a  favorite  with  her  clever  brother,  who,  in  the 
matter  of  women,  even  when  they  were  nearly  re- 
lated to  him,  was  a  man  of  distinct  preferences.  He 
preferred  Mrs.  Almond  to  his  sister  Lavinia,  who  had 
married  a  poor  clergyman,  of  a  sickly  constitution 
and  a  flowery  style  of  eloquence,  and  then,  at  the  age 
of  thirty-three,  had  been  left  a  widow — without  chil- 
dren, without  fortune — with  nothing  but  the  mem- 
ory of  Mr.  Penniman's  flowers  of  speech,  a  certain 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  13 

vague  aroma  of  which  hovered  about  her  own  con- 
versation. Nevertheless,  he  had  offered  her  a  home 
under  his  own  roof,  which  Lavinia  accepted  with  the 
alacrity  of  a  woman  who  had  spent  the  ten  years  of 
her  married  life  in  the  town  of  Poughkeepsie.  The 
Doctor  had  not  proposed  to  Mrs.  Penniman  to  come 
and  live  with  him  indefinitely;  he  had  suggested 
that  she  should  make  an  asylum  of  his  house  while 
she  looked  about  for  unfurnished  lodgings.  It  is 
uncertain  whether  Mrs.  Penniman  ever  instituted  a 
search  for  unfurnished  lodgings,  but  it  is  beyond  dis- 
pute that  she  never  found  them.  She  settled  her- 
self with  her  brother  and  never  went  away,  and,  when 
Catherine  was  twenty  years  old,  her  Aunt  Lavinia 
was  still  one  of  the  most  striking  features  of  her  im- 
mediate entourage.  Mrs.  Penniman's  own  account 
of  the  matter  was  that  she  had  remained  to  take 
charge  of  her  niece's  education.  She  had  given 
this  account,  at  least,  to  every  one  but  the  Doctor, 
who  never  asked  for  explanations  which  he  could 
entertain  himself  any  day  with  inventing.  Mrs. 
Penniman,  moreover,  though  she  had  a  good  deal 
of  a  certain  sort  of  artificial  assurance,  shrunk,  for 
indefinable  reasons,  from  presenting  herself  to  her 
brother  as  a  fountain  of  instruction.  She  had  not  a 
high  sense  of  humor,  but  she  had  enough  to  prevent 
her  from  making  this  mistake ;  and  her  brother,  on 
his  side,  had  enough  to  excuse  her,  in  her  situation, 
for  laying  him  under  contribution  during  a  consid- 
erable part  of  a  lifetime.  He  therefore  assented 
tacitly  to  the  proposition  which  Mrs.  Penniman 
had  tacitly  laid  down,  that  it  was  of  importance 
that  the  poor  motherless  girl  should  have  a  brill- 


14  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

iant  woman  near  her.  His  assent  could  only  be 
tacit,  for  he  had  never  been  dazzled  by  his  sister's 
intellectual  lustre.  Save  when  he  fell  in  love  with 
Catherine  Harrington,  he  had  never  been  dazzled, 
indeed,  by  any  feminine  characteristics  whatever; 
and  though  he  was  to  a  certain  extent  what  is  called 
a  ladies'  doctor,  his  private  opinion  of  the  more  com- 
plicated sex  was  not  exalted.  He  regarded  its  com- 
plications as  more  curious  than  edifying,  and  he  had 
an  idea  of  the  beauty  of  reason,  which  was,  on  the 
whole,  meagrely  gratified  by  what  he  observed  in 
his  female  patients.  His  wife  had  been  a  reasona- 
ble woman,  but  she  was  a  bright  exception ;  among 
several  things  that  he  was  sure  of,  this  was  perhaps 
the  principal.  Such  a  conviction,  of  course,  did  little 
either  to  mitigate  or  to  abbreviate  his  widowhood  ; 
and  it  set  a  limit  to  his  recognition,  at  the  best,  of 
Catherine's  possibilities  and  of  Mrs.  Penniman's  min- 
istrations. He  nevertheless,  at  the  end  of  six  months, 
accepted  his  sister's  permanent  presence  as  an  accom- 
plished fact,  and  as  Catherine  grew  older,  perceived 
that  there  were  in  effect  good  reasons  why  she  should 
have  a  companion  of  her  own  imperfect  sex.  He  was 
extremely  polite  to  Lavinia,  scrupulously,  formally 
polite ;  and  she  had  never  seen  him  in  anger  but 
once  in  her  life,  when  he  lost  his  temper  in  a  theo- 
logical discussion  with  her  late  husband.  With  her  he 
never  discussed  theology,  nor,  indeed,  discussed  any- 
thing; he  contented  himself  with  making  known, 
very  distinctly,  in  the  form  of  a  lucid  ultimatum, 
his  wishes  with  regard  to  Catherine. 

Once,  when  the  girl  was  about  twelve  years  old, 
he  had  said  to  her — 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  15 

"  Try  and  make  a  clever  woman  of  her,  Lavinia ; 
I  should  like  her  to  be  a  clever  woman." 

Mrs.  Penniman,  at  this,  looked  thoughtful  a  mo- 
ment. "  My  dear  Austin,"  she  then  inquired, "  do 
you  think  it  is  better  to  be  clever  than  to  be 
good  ?" 

"Xrood  for  what?"  asked  the  Doctor.  "You  are 
good  for  nothing  unless  you  are  clever." 

From  this  assertion  Mrs.  Penniman  saw  no  reason 
to  dissent ;  she  possibly  reflected  that  her  own  great 
use  in  the  world  was  owing  to  her  aptitude  for  many 
things. 

"Of  course  I  wish  Catherine  to  be  good,"  the 
Doctor  said  next  day ;  "  but  she  won't  be  any  the 
less  virtuous  for  not  being  a  fool.  I  am  not  afraid 
of  her  being  wicked ;  she  will  never  have  the  salt  of 
malice  in  her  character.  She  is  'as  good  as  good 
bread,'  as  the  French  say;  but  six  years  hence  I 
don't  want  to  have  to  compare  her  to  good  bread- 
and-butter." 

"Are  you  afraid  she  will  be  insipid?  My  dear 
brother,  it  is  I  who  supply  the  butter;  so  you 
needn't  fear !"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  who  had  taken 
in  hand  the  child's  "  accomplishments,"  overlooking 
her  at  the  piano,  where  Catherine  displayed  a  cer- 
tain talent,  and  going  with  her  to  the  dancing-class, 
where  it  must  be  confessed  that  she  made  but  a 
modest  figure. 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  a  tall,  thin,  fair,  rather  faded 
woman,  with  a  perfectly  amiable  disposition,  a  high 
standard  of  gentility,  a  taste  for  light  literature,  and 
a  certain  foolish  indirectness  and  obliquity  of  char- 
acter. She  was  romantic ;  she  was  sentimental ;  she 


16  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

had  a  passion  for  little  secrets  and  mysteries — a  very 
innocent  passion,  for  her  secrets  had  hitherto  always 
been  as  unpractical  as  addled  eggs.  She  was  not 
absolutely  veracious  ;  but  this  defect  was  of  no  great 
consequence,  for  she  had  never  had  anything  to  con- 
ceal. She  would  have  liked  to  have  a  lover,  and  to 
correspond  with  him  under  an  assumed  name,  in  let- 
ters left  at  a  shop.  I  am  bound  to  say  that  her  im- 
agination never  carried  the  intimacy  further  than 
this.  Mrs.  Penniman  had  never  had  a  lover,  but 
her  brother,  who  was  very  shrewd,  understood  her 
turn  of  mind.  "  When  Catherine  is  about  seven- 
teen," he  said  to  himself,  "  Lavinia  will  try  and  per- 
suade her  that  some  young  man  with  a  mustache 
is  in  love  with  her.  It  will  be  quite  untrue ;  no 
young  man,  with  a  mustache  or  without,  will  ever 
be  in  love  with  Catherine.  But  Lavinia  will  take  it 
up,  and  talk  to  her  about  it ;  perhaps,  even,  if  her 
taste  for  clandestine  operations  doesn't  prevail  with 
her,  she  will  talk  to  me  about  it.  Catherine  won't 
see  it,  and  won't  believe  it,  fortunately  for  her  peace 
of  mind ;  poor  Catherine  isn't  romantic." 

She  was  a  healthy,  well -grown  child,  without  a 
trace  of  her  mother's  beauty.  She  was  not  ugly ; 
she  had  simply  a  plain,  dull,  gentle  countenance. 
The  most  that  had  ever  been  said  for  her  was  that 
she  had  a  "  nice  "  face ;  and,  though  she  was  an  heir- 
ess, no  one  had  ever  thought  of  regarding  her  as  a 
belle.  Her  father's  opinion  of  her  moral  purity 
was  abundantly  justified ;  she  was  excellently,  im- 
perturbably  good  ;  affectionate,  docile,  obedient,  and 
much  addicted  to  speaking  the  truth.  In  her  young- 
er years  she  was  a  good  deal  of  a  romp,  and,  though 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  17 

it  is  an  awkward  confession  to  make  about  one's 
heroine,  I  must  add  that  she  was  something  of  a 
glutton.  She  never,  that  I  know  of,  stole  raisins 
out  of  the  pantry ;  but  she  devoted  her  pocket-mon- 
ey to  the  purchase  of  cream-cakes.  As  regards  this, 
however,  a  critical  attitude  would  be  inconsistent 
with  a  candid  reference  to  the  early  annals  of  any 
biographer.  Catherine  was  decidedly  not  clever; 
she  was  not  quick  with  her  book,  nor,  indeed,  with 
anything  else.  She  was  not  abnormally  deficient, 
and  she  mustered  learning  enough  to  acquit  herself 
respectably  in  conversation  with  her  contemporaries 
— among  whom  it  must  be  avowed,  however,  that  she 
occupied  a  secondary  place.  It  is  well  known  that 
in  New  York  it  is  possible  for  a  young  girl  to  oc- 
cupy a  primary  one.  Catherine,  who  was  extremely 
modest,  had  no  desire  to  shine,  and  on  most  social 
occasions,  as  they  are  called,  you  would  have  found 
her  lurking  in  the  background.  She  was  extremely 
fond  of  her  father,  and  very  much  afraid  of  him ; 
she  thought  him  the  cleverest  and  handsomest  and 
most  celebrated  of  men.  The  poor  girl  found  her 
account  so  completely  in  the  exercise  of  her  affec- 
tions that  the  little  tremor  of  fear  that  mixed  itself 
with  her  filial  passion  gave  the  tiling  an  extra  relish 
rather  than  blunted  its  edge.  Her  deepest  desire 
was  to  please  him,  and  her  conception  of  happiness 
was  to  know  that  she  had  succeeded  in  pleasing  him. 
She  had  never  succeeded  beyond  a  certain  point. 
Though,  on  the  whole,  he  was  very  kind  to  her,  she 
was  perfectly  aware  of  this,  and  to  go  beyond  the 
point  in  question  seemed  to  her  really  something  to 
live  for.  What  she  could  not  know,  of  course,  was 

2 


18  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

that  she  disappointed  him,  though  on  three  or  four 
occasions  the  Doctor  had  been  almost  frank  about 
it.  She  grew  up  peacefully  and  prosperously;  but 
at  the  age  of  eighteen  Mrs.  Penniman  had  not  made 
a  clever  woman  of  her.  Doctor  Sloper  would  have 
liked  to  be  proud  of  his  daughter;  but  there  was 
nothing  to  be  proud  of  in  poor  Catherine.  There 
was  nothing,  of  course,  to  be  ashamed  of ;  but  this 
was  not  enough  for  the  Doctor,  who  was  a  proud 
man,  and  would  have  enjoyed  being  able  to  think  of 
his  daughter  as  an  unusual  girl.  There  would  have 
been  a  fitness  in  her  being  pretty  and  graceful, 
intelligent  and  distinguished — for  her  mother  had 
been  the  most  charming  woman  of  her  little  day— 
and  as  regards  her  father,  of  course  he  knew  his  own 
value.  He  had  moments  of  irritation  at  having  pro- 
duced a  commonplace  child,  and  he  even  went  so 
far  at  times  as  to  take  a  certain  satisfaction  in  the 
thought  that  his  wife  had  not  lived  to  find  her  out. 
He  was  naturally  slow  in  making  this  discovery 
himself,  and  it  was  not  till  Catherine  had  become  a 
young  lady  grown  that  he  regarded  the  matter  as 
settled.  He  gave  her  the  benefit  of  a  great  many 
doubts ;  he  was  in  no  haste  to  conclude.  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman frequently  assured  him  that  his  daughter  had 
a  delightful  nature ;  but  he  knew  how  ,to  interpret 
this  assurance.  It  meant,  to  his  sense,  that  Cathe- 
rine was  not  wise  enough  to  discover  that  her  aunt 
was  a  goose — a  limitation  of  mind  that  could  not  fail 
to  be  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Penniman.  Both  she  and 
her  brother,  however,  exaggerated  the  young  girl's 
limitations ;  for  Catherine,  though  she  was  very  fond 
of  her  aunt,  and  conscious  of  the  gratitude  she  owed 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  19 

her,  regarded  her  without  a  particle  of  that  gentle 
dread  which  gave  its  stamp  to  her  admiration  of  her 
father.  To  her  mind  there  was  nothing  of  the  in- 
finite about  Mrs.  Penniman ;  Catherine  saw  her  all 
at  once,  as  it  were,  and  was  not  dazzled  by  the  ap- 
parition ;  whereas  her  father's  great  faculties  seem- 
ed, as  they  stretched  away,  to  lose  themselves  in  a 
sort  of  luminous  vagueness,  which  indicated,  not 
that  they  stopped,  but  that  Catherine's  own  mind 
ceased  to  follow  them. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Doctor  Sloper  visit- 
ed his  disappointment  upon  the  poor  girl,  or  ever 
let  her  suspect  that  she  had  played  him  a  trick.  On 
the  contrary,  for  fear  of  being  unjust  to  her,  he  did 
his  duty  with  exemplary  zeal,  and  recognized  that 
she  was  a  faithful  and  affectionate  child.  Besides, 
he  was  a  philosopher :  he  smoked  a  good  many  cigars 
over  his  disappointment,  and  in  the  fulness  of  time 
he  got  used  to  it.  He  satisfied  himself  that  he  had 
expected  nothing,  though,  indeed,  with  a  certain  odd- 
ity of  reasoning.  "I  expect  nothing,"  he  said  to 
himself ;  "  so  that,  if  she  gives  me  a  surprise,  it  will 
be  all  clear  gain.  If  she  doesn't,  it  will  be  no  loss." 
This  was  about  the  time  Catherine  had  reached  her 
eighteenth  year ;  so  that  it  will  be  seen  her  father 
had  not  been  precipitate.  At  this  time  she  seemed 
not  only  incapable  of  giving  surprises ;  it  was  al- 
most a  question  whether  she  could  have  received 
one  —  she  was  so  quiet  and  irresponsive.  People 
who  expressed  themselves  roughly  called  her  stolid. 
But  she  was  irresponsive  because  she  was  shy,  un- 
comfortably, painfully  shy.  This  was  not  always 
understood,  and  she  sometimes  produced  an  impres- 


20  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

sion  of  insensibility.     In  reality,  she  was  the  softest 
creature  in  the  world. 


III. 

As  a  child  she  had  promised  to  be  tall ;  but  when 
she  was  sixteen  she  ceased  to  grow,  and  her  stature, 
like  most  other  points  in  her  composition,  was  not 
unusual.  She  was  strong,  however,  and  properly 
made,  and,  fortunately,  her  health  was  excellent. 
It  has  been  noted  that  the  Doctor  was  a  philoso- 
pher, but  I  would  not  have  answered  for  his  philos- 
ophy if  the  poor  girl  had  proved  a  sickly  and  suf- 
fering person.  Her  appearance  of  health  constituted 
her  principal  claim  to  beauty ;  and  her  clear,  fresh 
complexion,  in  which  white  and  red  were  very  equal- 
ly distributed,  was,  indeed,  an  excellent  thing  to  see. 
Her  eye  was  small  and  quiet,  her  features  were 
rather  thick,  her  tresses  brown  and  smooth.  A  dull, 
plain  girl  she  was  called  by  rigorous  critics — a  quiet, 
lady-like  girl,  by  those  of  the  more  imaginative  sort ; 
but  by  neither  class  was  she  very  elaborately  dis- 
cussed. When  it  had  been  duly  impressed  upon  her 
that  she  was  a  young  lady — it  was  a  good  while  be- 
fore she  could  believe  it — she  suddenly  developed 
a  lively  taste  for  dress:  a  lively  taste  is  quite  the 
expression  to  use.  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  write  it 
very  small,  her  judgment  in  this  matter  was  by  no 
means  infallible ;  it  was  liable  to  confusions  and 
embarrassments.  Her  great  indulgence  of  it  was 
really  the  desire  of  a  rather  inarticulate  nature  to 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  21 

manifest  itself;  she  sought  to  be  eloquent  in  her 
garments,  and  to  make  up  for  her  diffidence  of 
speech  by  a  fine  frankness  of  costume.  But  if  she 
expressed  herself  in  her  clothes,  it  is  certain  that 
people  were  not  to  blame  for  not  thinking  her  a 
witty  person.  It  must  be  added  that,  though  she 
had  the  expectation  of  a  fortune — Doctor  Sloper  for 
a  long  time  had  been  making  twenty  thousand  dol- 
lars a  year  by  his  profession,  and  laying  aside  the 
half  of  it — the  amount  of  money  at  her  disposal  was 
not  greater  than  the  allowance  made  to  many  poorer 
girls.  In  those  days,  in  New  York,  there  were  still 
a  few  altar-fires  flickering  in  the  temple  of  Repub- 
lican simplicity,  and  Doctor  Sloper  would  have  been 
glad  to  see  his  daughter  present  herself,  with  a  clas- 
sic grace,  as  a  priestess  of  this  mild  faith.  It  made 
him  fairly  grimace,  in  private,  to  think  that  a  child 
of  his  should  be  both  ugly  and  overdressed.  For 
himself,  he  was  fond  of  the  good  things  of  life,  and 
he  made  a  considerable  use  of  them;  but  he  had  a 
dread  of  vulgarity,  and  even  a  theory  that  it  was  in- 
creasing in  the  society  that  surrounded  him.  More- 
over, the  standard  of  luxury  in  the  United  States 
thirty  years  ago  was  carried  by  no  means  so  high  as 
at  present,  and  Catherine's  clever  father  took  the 
old-fashioned  view  of  the  education  of  young  per- 
sons. He  had  no  particular  theory  on  the  subject ; 
it  had  scarcely  as  yet  become  a  necessity  of  self-de- 
fence to  have  a  collection  of  theories.  It  simply 
appeared  to  him  proper  and  reasonable  that  a  well- 
bred  young  woman  should  not  carry  half  her  fortune 
on  her  back.  Catherine's  back  was  a  broad  one, 
and  would  have  carried  a  good  deal;  but  to  the 


22  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

weight  of  the  paternal  displeasure  she  never  vent 
ured  to  expose  it,  and  our  heroine  was  twenty  years 
old  before  she  treated  herself,  for  evening  wear,  to 
a  red  satin  gown  trimmed  with  gold  fringe ;  though 
this  was  an  article  which,  for  many  years,  she  had 
coveted  in  secret.  It  made  her  look,  when  she 
sported  it,  like  a  woman  of  thirty ;  but  oddly  enough, 
in  spite  of  her  taste  for  fine  clothes,  she  had  not  a 
grain  of  coquetry,  and  her  anxiety  when  she  put 
them  on  was  as  to  whether  they,  and  not  she,  would 
look  well.  It  is  a  point  on  which  history  has  not 
been  explicit, but  the  assumption  is  warrantable;  it 
was  in  the  royal  raiment  just  mentioned  that  she 
presented  herself  at  a  little  entertainment  given  by 
her  aunt,  Mrs.  Almond.  The  girl  was  at  this  time 
in  her  twenty -first  year,  and  Mrs.  Almond's  party 
was  the  beginning  of  something  very  important. 

Some  three  or  four  years  before  this,  Doctor 
Sloper  had  moved  his  household  gods  up  town,  as 
they  say  in  New  York.  He  had  been  living  ever 
since  his  marriage  in  an  edifice  of  red  brick,  with 
granite  copings  and  an  enormous  fan-light  over  the 
door,  standing  in  a  street  within  five  minutes'  walk 
of  the  City  Hall,  which  saw  its  best  days  (from  the 
social  point  of  view)  about  1820.  After  this,  the 
tide  of  fashion  began  to  set  steadily  northward,  as, 
indeed,  in  New  York,  thanks  to  the  narrow  channel 
in  which  it  flows,  it  is  obliged  to  do,  and  the  great 
hum  of  traffic  rolled  farther  to  the  right  and  left  of 
Broadway.  By  the  time  the  Doctor  changed  his 
residence,  the  murmur  of  trade  had  become  a  mighty 
uproar,  which  was  music  in  the  ears  of  all  good  citi- 
zens interested  in  the  commercial  development,  as 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  23 

they  delighted  to  call  it,  of  their  fortunate  isle.  Doc- 
tor Sloper's  interest  in  this  phenomenon  was  only  in- 
direct— though,  seeing  that,  as  the  years  went  on, 
half  his  patients  came  to  be  overworked  men  of  busi- 
ness, it  might  have  been  more  immediate — and  when 
most  of  his  neighbors'  dwellings  (also  ornamented 
with  granite  copings  and  large  fan-lights)  had  been 
converted  into  offices,  warehouses,  and  shipping  agen- 
cies, and  otherwise  applied  to  the  base  uses  of  com- 
merce, he  determined  to  look  out  for  a  quieter  home. 
The  ideal  of  quiet  and  of  genteel  retirement,  in 
1835,  was  found  in  Washington  Square,  where  the 
Doctor  built  himself  a  handsome,  modern,  wide- 
fronted  house,  with  a  big  balcony  before  the  draw- 
ing-room windows,  and  a  flight  of  white  marble  steps 
ascending  to  a  portal  which  was  also  faced  with 
white  marble.  This  structure,  and  many  of  its 
neighbors,  which  it  exactly  resembled,  were  sup- 
posed, forty  years  ago,  to  embody  the  last  results  of 
architectural  science,  and  they  remain  to  this  day 
very  solid  and  honorable  dwellings.  In  front  of 
them  was  the  square,  containing  a  considerable 
quantity  of  inexpensive  vegetation,  enclosed  by  a 
wooden  paling,  which  increased  its  rural  and  acces- 
sible appearance;  and  round  the  corner  was  the 
more  august  precinct  of  the  Fifth  Avenue,  taking 
its  origin  at  this  point  with  a  spacious  and  confident 
air  which  already  marked  it  for  high  destinies.  I 
know  not  whether  it  is  owing  to  the  tenderness  of 
early  associations,  but  this  portion  of  New  York  ap- 
pears to  many  persons  the  most  delectable.  It  has 
a  kind  of  established  repose  which  is  not  of  frequent 
occurrence  in  other  quarters  of  the  long,  shrill  city ; 


24  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

it  has  a  riper,  richer,  more  honorable  look  than  any 
of  the  upper  ramifications  of  the  great  longitudinal 
thoroughfare — the  look  of  having  had  something  of 
a  social  history.  It  was  here,  as  you  might  have 
been  informed  on  good  authority,  that  you  had  come 
into  a  world  which  appeared  to  offer  a  variety  of 
sources  of  interest;  it  was  here  that  your  grand- 
mother lived,  in  venerable  solitude,  and  dispensed 
a  hospitality  which  commended  itself  alike  to  the 
infant  imagination  and  the  infant  palate;  it  was 
here  that  you  took  your  first  walks  abroad,  following 
the  nursery-maid  with  unequal  step,  and  sniffing  up 
the  strange  odor  of  the  ailanthus-trees  which  at  that 
time  formed  the  principal  umbrage  of  the  Square, 
and  diffused  an  aroma  that  you  were  not  yet  critical 
enough  to  dislike  as  it  deserved ;  it  was  here,  final- 
ly, that  your  first  school,  kept  by  a  broad-bosomed, 
broad-based  old  lady  with  a  ferule,  who  was  always 
having  tea  in  a  blue  cup,  with  a  saucer  that  didn't 
match,  enlarged  the  circle  both  of  your  observations 
and  your  sensations.  It  was  here,  at  any  rate,  that 
my  heroine  spent  many  years  of  her  life ;  which  is 
my  excuse  for  this  topographical  parenthesis. 

Mrs.  Almond  lived  much  farther  up  town,  in  an 
embryonic  street,  with  a  high  number — a  region 
where  the  extension  of  the  city  began  to  assume  a 
theoretic  air,  where  poplars  grew  beside  the  pave- 
ment (when  there  was  one),  and  mingled  their  shade 
with  the  steep  roofs  of  desultory  Dutch  houses,  and 
where  pigs  and  chickens  disported  themselves  in  the 
gutter.  These  elements  of  rural  picturesqueness 
have  now  wholly  departed  from  New  York  street 
scenery;  but  they  were  to  be  found  within  the 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  25 

memory  of  middle-aged  persons  in  quarters  which 
now  would  blush  to  be  reminded  of  them.  Cathe- 
rine had  a  great  many  cousins,  and  with  her  Aunt 
Almond's  children,  who  ended  by  being  nine  in 
number,  she  lived  on  terms  of  considerable  intimacy. 
When  she  was  younger  they  had  been  rather  afraid 
of  her ;  she  was  believed,  as  the  phrase  is,  to  be  high- 
ly educated,  and  a  person  who  lived  in  the  intimacy 
of  their  Aunt  Penniman  had  something  of  reflect- 
ed grandeur.  Mrs.  Penniman,  among  the  little  Al- 
monds, was  an  object  of  more  admiration  than  sym- 
pathy. Her  manners  were  strange  and  formidable, 
and  her  mourning  robes — she  dressed  in  black  for 
twenty  years  after  her  husband's  death,  and  then  sud- 
denly appeared,  one  morning,  with  pink  roses  in  her 
cap — were  complicated  in  odd,  unexpected  places 
with  buckles,  bugles,  and  pins,  which  discouraged 
familiarity.  She  took  children  too  hard,  both  for 
good  and  for  evil,  and  had  an  oppressive  air  of  ex- 
pecting subtle  things  of  them ;  so  that  going  to  see 
her  was  a  good  deal  like  being  taken  to  church  and 
made  to  sit  in  a  front  pew.  It  was  discovered  after 
awhile,  however,  that  Aunt  Penniman  was  but  an  ac- 
cident in  Catherine's  existence,  and  not  a  part  of  its 
essence,  and  that  when  the  girl  came  to  spend  a  Sat- 
urday with  her  cousins,  she  was  available  for  "  fol- 
low-my -master,"  and  even  for  leap-frog.  On  this 
basis  an  understanding  was  easily  arrived  at,  and  for 
several  years  Catherine  fraternized  with  her  young 
kinsmen.  I  say  young  kinsmen,  because  seven  of 
the  little  Almonds  were  boys,  and  Catherine  had  a 
preference  for  those  games  which  are  most  conven- 
iently played  in  trousers.  By  degrees,  however,  the 


26  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

little  Almonds'  trousers  began  to  lengthen,  and  the 
wearers  to  disperse  and  settle  themselves  in  life. 
The  elder  children  were  older  than  Catherine,  and 
the  boys  were  sent  to  college  or  placed  in  counting- 
rooms.  Of  the  girls,  one  married  very  punctually, 
and  the  other  as  punctually  became  engaged.  It 
was  to  celebrate  this  latter  event  that  Mrs.  Almond 
gave  the  little  party  I  have  mentioned.  Her  daugh- 
ter was  to  marry  a  stout  young  stock-broker,  a  boy 
of  twenty :  it  was  thought  a  very  good  thing. 


IY. 

MRS.  PENNIMAN,  with  more  buckles  and  bangles 
than  ever,  came,  of  course,  to  the  entertainment,  ac- 
companied by  her  niece ;  the  Doctor,  too,  had  prom- 
ised to  look  in  later  in  the  evening.  There  was  to 
be  a  good  deal  of  dancing,  and  before  it  had  gone 
very  far  Marian  Almond  came  up  to  Catherine,  in 
company  with  a  tall  young  man.  She  introduced 
the  young  man  as  a  person  who  had  a  great  desire 
to  make  our  heroine's  acquaintance,  and  as  a  cousin 
of  Arthur  Townsend,  her  own  intended. 

Marian  Almond  was  a  pretty  little  person  of  sev- 
enteen, with  a  very  small  figure  and  a  very  big  sash, 
to  the  elegance  of  whose  manners  matrimony  had 
nothing  to  add.  She  already  had  all  the  airs  of  a 
hostess,  receiving  the  company,  shaking  her  fan,  say- 
ing that  with  so  many  people  to  attend  to  she  should 
have  no  time  to  dance.  She  made  a  long  speech 
about  Mr.  Townsend's  cousin,  to  whom  she  admin- 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  27 

istered  a  tap  with  her  fan  before  turning  away  to 
other  cares.  Catherine  had  not  understood  all  that 
she  said ;  her  attention  was  given  to  enjoying  Ma- 
rian's ease  of  manner  and  flow  of  ideas,  and  to  look- 
ing at  the  young  man,  who  was  remarkably  hand- 
some. She  had  succeeded,  however,  as  she  often 
failed  to  do  when  people  were  presented  to  her,  in 
catching  his  name,  which  appeared  to  be  the  same 
as  that  of  Marian's  little  stock-broker.  Catherine 
was  always  agitated  by  an  introduction  ;  it  seemed 
a  difficult  moment,  and  she  wondered  that  some  peo- 
ple— her  new  acquaintance  at  this  moment,  for  in- 
stance—  should  mind  it  so  little.  She  wondered 
what  she  ought  to  say,  and  what  would  be  the  con- 
sequences of  her  saying  nothing.  The  consequences 
at  present  were  very  agreeable.  Mr.  Townsend,  leav- 
ing her  no  time  for  embarrassment,  began  to  talk  to 
her  with  an  easy  smile,  as  if  he  had  known  her  for 
a  year. 

"What  a  delightful  party!  What  a  charming 
house !  What  an  interesting  family  !  What  a  pret- 
ty girl  your  cousin  is !" 

These  observations,  in  themselves  of  no  great  pro- 
fundity, Mr.  Townsend  seemed  to  offer  for  what  they 
were  worth,  and  as  a  contribution  to  an  acquaintance. 
He  looked  straight  into  Catherine's  eyes.  She  an- 
swered nothing;  she  only  listened,  and  looked  at 
him ;  and  he,  as  if  he  expected  no  particular  reply, 
went  on  to  say  many  other  things  in  the  same  com- 
fortable and  natural  manner.  Catherine,  though 
she  felt  tongue-tied,  was  conscious  of  no  embarrass- 
ment ;  it  seemed  proper  that  he  should  talk,  and  that 
she  should  simply  look  at  him.  What  made  it  nat- 


28  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

ural  was  that  he  was  so  handsome,  or,  rather,  as  she 
phrased  it  to  herself,  so  beautiful.  The  music  had 
been  silent  for  awhile,  but  it  suddenly  began  again ; 
and  then  he  asked  her,  with  a  deeper,  intenser  smile, 
if  she  would  do  him  the  honor  of  dancing  with  him. 
Even  to  this  inquiry  she  gave  no  audible  assent ;  she 
simply  let  him  put  his  arm  round  her  waist — as  she 
did  so,  it  occurred  to  her  more  vividly  than  it  had 
ever  done  before  that  this  was  a  singular  place  for  a 
gentleman's  arm  to  be — and  in  a  moment  he  was 
guiding  her  round  the  room  in  the  harmonious  rota- 
tion of  the  polka.  When  they  paused,  she  felt  that 
she  was  red ;  and  then,  for  some  moments,  she  stop- 
ped looking  at  him.  She  fanned  herself,  and  looked 
at  the  flowers  that  were  painted  on  her  fan.  He 
asked  her  if  she  would  begin  again,  and  she  hesitated 
to  answer,  still  looking  at  the  flowers. 

"  Does  it  make  you  dizzy  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  tone  of 
great  kindness. 

Then  Catherine  looked  up  at  him ;  he  was  cer- 
tainly beautiful,  and  not  at  all  red.  "  Yes,"  she  said  ; 
she  hardly  knew  why,  for  dancing  had  never  made 
her  dizzy. 

"  Ah,  well,  in  that  case,"  said  Mr.  Townsend,  "  we 
will  sit  still  and  talk.  I  will  find  a  good  place  to  sit." 

He  found  a  good  place — a  charming  place ;  a  little 
sofa  that  seemed  meant  only  for  two  persons.  The 
rooms  by  this  time  were  very  full ;  the  dancers  in- 
creased in  number,  and  people  stood  close  in  front 
of  them,  turning  their  backs,  so  that  Catherine  and 
her  companion  seemed  secluded  and  unobserved. 
"  We  will  talk,"  the  young  man  had  said  ;  but  he  still 
did  all  the  talking.  Catherine  leaned  back  in  her 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  29 

place,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  smiling,  and 
thinking  him  very  clever.  He  had  features  like 
young  men  in  pictures;  Catherine  had  never  seen 
such  features — so  delicate,  so  chiselled  and  finished— 
among  the  young  New  Yorkers  whom  she  passed  in 
the  streets  and  met  at  dancing-parties.  He  was  tall 
and  slim,  but  he  looked  extremely  strong.  Cathe- 
rine thought  he  looked  like  a  statue.  But  a  statue 
would  not  talk  like  that,  and,  above  all,  would  not 
have  eyes  of  so  rare  a  color.  He  had  never  been  at 
Mrs.  Almond's  before ;  he  felt  very  much  like  a 
stranger ;  and  it  was  very  kind  of  Catherine  to  take 
pity  on  him.  He  was  Arthur  Townsend's  cousin— 
not  very  near ;  several  times  removed — and  Arthur 
had  brought  him  to  present  him  to  the  family.  In 
fact,  he  was  a  great  stranger  in  'New  York.  It  was 
his  native  place ;  but  he  had  not  been  there  for  many 
years.  He  had  been  knocking  about  the  world,  and 
living  in  queer  corners;  he  had  only  come  back  a 
month  or  two  before.  New  York  was  very  pleas- 
ant, only  he  felt  lonely. 

"  You  see,  people  forget  you,"  he  said,  smiling  at 
Catherine  with  his  delightful  gaze,  while  he  leaned 
forward  obliquely,  turning  toward  her,  with  his  el- 
bows on  his  knees. 

It  seemed  to  Catherine  that  no  one  who  had  once 
seen  him  would  ever  forget  him;  but  though  she 
made  this  reflection  she  kept  it  to  herself,  almost  as 
you  would  keep  something  precious. 

They  sat  there  for  some  time.  He  was  very  amus- 
ing. He  asked  her  about  the  people  that  were  near 
them ;  he  tried  to  guess  who  some  of  them  were, 
and  he  made  the  most  laughable  mistakes.  He  criti- 


30  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

cised  them  very  freely,  in  a  positive,  off-hand  way. 
Catherine  had  never  heard  any  one — especially  any 
young  man — talk  just  like  that.  It  was  the  way  a 
young  man  might  talk  in  a  novel ;  or,  better  still,  in 
a  play,  on  the  stage,  close  before  the  foot-lights,  look- 
ing at  the  audience,  and  with  every  one  looking  at 
him,  so  that  you  wondered  at  his  presence  of  mind. 
And  yet  Mr.  Townsend  was  not  like  an  actor;  he 
seemed  so  sincere,  so  natural.  This  was  very  inter- 
esting ;  but  in  the  midst  of  it  Marian  Almond  came 
pushing  through  the  crowd,  with  a  little  ironical  cry, 
when  she  found  these  young  people  still  together, 
which  made  every  one  turn  round,  and  cost  Cathe- 
rine a  conscious  blush.  Marian  broke  up  their  talk, 
and  told  Mr.  Townsend — whom  she  treated  as  if  she 
were  already  married,  and  he  had  become  her  cousin 
—to  run  away  to  her  mother,  who  had  been  wishing 
for  the  last  half  hour  to  introduce  him  to  Mr.  Al- 
mond. 

"We  shall  meet  again,"  he  said  to  Catherine  as 
he  left  her,  and  Catherine  thought  it  a  very  original 
speech. 

Her  cousin  took  her  by  the  arm,  and  made  her 
walk  about.  "  I  needn't  ask  you  what  you  think  of 
Morris,"  the  young  girl  exclaimed. 

"  Is  that  his  name  ?" 

"  I  don't  ask  you  what  you  think  of  his  name,  but 
what  you  think  of  himself,"  said  Marian. 

"  Oh,  nothing  particular,"  Catherine  answered,  dis- 
sembling for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

"  I  have  half  a  mind  to  tell  him  that !"  cried  Ma- 
rian. "  It  will  do  him  good ;  he's  so  terribly  con- 
ceited." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  31 

"  Conceited  ?"  said  Catherine,  staring. 

"  So  Arthur  says,  and  Arthur  knows  about  him." 

"  Oh,  don't  tell  him !"  Catherine  murmured,  im- 
ploringly. 

"  Don't  tell  him  he's  conceited !  I  have  told  him 
so  a  dozen  times." 

At  this  profession  of  audacity  Catherine  looked 
down  at  her  little  companion  in  amazement.  She 
supposed  it  was  because  Marian  was  going  to  be 
married  that  she  took  so  much  on  herself ;  but  she 
wondered  too,  whether,  when  she  herself  should  be- 
come engaged,  such  exploits  would  be  expected  of 
her. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  saw  her  aunt  Penniman 
sitting  in  the  embrasure  of  a  window,  with  her  head 
a  little  on  one  side,  and  her  gold  eye-glass  raised  to 
her  eyes,  which  were  wandering  about  the  room.  In 
front  of  her  was  a  gentleman,  bending  forward  a 
little,  with  his  back  turned  to  Catherine.  She  knew 
his  back  immediately,  though  she  had  never  seen  it ; 
for  when  he  left  her,  at  Marian's  instigation,  he  had 
retreated  in  the  best  order,  without  turning  round. 
Morris  Townsend  —  the  name  had  already  become 
very  familiar  to  her,  as  if  some  one  had  been  re- 
peating it  in  her  ear  for  the  last  half  hour — Morris 
Townsend  was  giving  his  impressions  of  the  com- 
pany to  her  aunt,  as  he  had  done  to  herself  ;  he  was 
saying  clever  things,  and  Mrs.  Penniman  was  smiling, 
as  if  she  approved  of  them.  As  soon  as  Catherine 
had  perceived  this  she  moved  away ;  she  would  not 
have  liked  him  to  turn  round  and  see  her.  But  it 
gave  her  pleasure — the  whole  thing.  That  he  should 
talk  with  Mrs.  Penniman,  with  whom  she  lived  and 


32  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

whom  she  saw  and  talked  with  every  day  —  that 
seemed  to  keep  him  near  her,  and  to  make  him 
even  easier  to  contemplate  than  if  she  herself  had 
been  the  object  of  his  civilities ;  and  that  Aunt  La- 
vinia  should  like  him,  should  not  be  shocked  or  star- 
tled by  what  he  said,  this  also  appeared  to  the  girl  a 
personal  gain ;  for  Aunt  Lavinia's  standard  was  ex- 
tremely high,  plan  ted  as  it  was  over  the  grave  of  her 
late  husband,  in  which,  as  she  had  convinced  every 
one,  the  very  genius  of  conversation  was  buried. 
One  of  the  Almond  boys,  as  Catherine  called  them, 
invited  our  heroine  to  dance  a  quadrille,  and  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  her  feet  at  least  were  occupied. 
This  time  she  was  not  dizzy;  her  head  was  very 
clear.  Just  when  the  dance  was  over,  she  found 
herself  in  the  crowd  face  to  face  with  her  father. 
Doctor  Sloper  had  usually  a  little  smile,  never  a  very 
big  one,  and  with  this  little  smile  playing  in  his  clear 
eyes  and  on  his  neatly-shaved  lips,  h£  looked  at  his 
daughter's  crimson  gown. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  this  magnificent  person  is  my 
child  ?"  he  said. 

You  would  have  surprised  him  if  you  had  told 
him  so ;  but  it  is  a  literal  fact  that  he  almost  never 
addressed  his  daughter  save  in  the  ironical  form. 
Whenever  he  addressed  her  he  gave  her  pleasure ; 
but  she  had  to  cut  her  pleasure  out  of  the  piece,  as 
it  were.  There  were  portions  left  over,  light  rem- 
nants and  snippets  of  irony,  which  she  never  knew 
what  to  do  with,  which  seemed  too  delicate  for  her 
own  use ;  and  yet  Catherine,  lamenting  the  limita- 
tions of  her  understanding,  felt  that  they  were  too 
valuable  to  waste,  and  had  a  belief  that  if  they  passed 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  33 

over  her  head  they  yet  contributed  to  the  general 
sum  of  human  wisdom. 

"  I  am  not  magnificent,"  she  said,  mildly,  wishing 
that  she  had  put  on  another  dress. 

"You  are  sumptuous,  opulent,  expensive,"  her 
father  rejoined.  "You  look  as  if  you  had  eighty 
thousand  a  year." 

"  Well,  so  long  as  I  haven't — "  said  Catherine,  il- 
logically.  Her  conception  of  her  prospective  wealth 
was  as  yet  very  indefinite. 

"  So  long  as  you  haven't  you  shouldn't  look  as  if 
you  had.  Have  you  enjoyed  your  party  ?" 

Catherine  hesitated  a  moment ;  and  then,  looking 
away,  "I  am  rather  tired,"  she  murmured.  I  have 
said  that  this  entertainment  was  the  beginning  of 
something  important  for  Catherine.  For  the  sec- 
ond time  in  her  life  she  made  an  indirect  answer; 
and  the  beginning  of  a  period  of  dissimulation  is 
certainly  a  significant  date.  Catherine  was  not  so 
easily  tired  as  that. 

Nevertheless,  in  the  carriage,  as  they  drove  home, 
she  was  as  quiet  as  if  fatigue  had  been  her  portion. 
Doctor  Sloper's  manner  of  addressing  his  sister  La- 
vinia  had  a  good  deal  of  resemblance  to  the  tone  he 
had  adopted  toward  Catherine. 

"  Who  was  the  young  man  that  was  making  love 
to  you  ?"  he  presently  asked. 

"  Oh,  my  good  brother !"  murmured  Mrs.  Penni- 
man,  in  deprecation. 

"He  seemed  uncommonly  tender.  Whenever  I 
looked  at  you  for  half  an  hour,  he  had  the  most  de- 
voted air." 

"  The  devotion  was  not  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Penni- 
3 


34  WASHINGTON  SQUAKE. 

man.  "It  was  to  Catherine;  he  talked  to  me  of 
her." 

Catherine  had  been  listening  with  all  her  ears. 
"  Oh,  Aunt  Penniman  !"  she  exclaimed,  faintly. 

"  He  is  very  handsome ;  he  is  very  clever ;  he  ex- 
pressed himself  with  a  great  deal — a  great  deal  of 
felicity,"  her  aunt  went  on. 

"He  is  in  love  with  this  regal  creature,  then?" 
the  Doctor  inquired,  humorously. 

"  Oh,  father !"  cried  the  girl,  still  more  faintly,  de- 
voutly thankful  the  carriage  was  dark. 

"  I  don't  know  that ;  but  he  admired  her  dress." 

Catherine  did  not  say  to  herself  in  the  dark,  "  My 
dress  only  ?"  Mrs.  Penniman's  announcement  struck 
her  by  its  richness,  not  by  its  meagreness. 

"  You  see,"  said  her  father,  "  he  thinks  you  have 
eighty  thousand  a  year." 

"  I  don't  believe  he  thinks  of  that,"  said  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman ;  "  he  is  too  refined." 

"  He  must  be  tremendously  refined  not  to  think 
of  that !" 

"Well,  he  is!"  Catherine  exclaimed,  before  she 
knew  it. 

"  I  thought  you  had  gone  to  sleep,"  her  father  an- 
swered. "  The  hour  has  come !"  he  added  to  him- 
self. "Lavinia  is  going  to  get  up  a  romance  for 
Catherine.  It's  a  shame  to  play  such  tricks  on  the 
girl.  What  is  the  gentleman's  name  ?"  he  went  on, 
aloud. 

"  I  didn't  catch  it,  and  I  didn't  like  to  ask  him. 
He  asked  to  be  introduced  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Penni- 
man, with  a  certain  grandeur ;  "  but  you  know  how 
indistinctly  Jefferson  speaks."  Jefferson  was  Mr. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  35 

Almond.  "  Catherine,  dear,  what  was  the  gentle- 
man's name  ?" 

For  a  minute,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  rumbling 
of  the  carriage,  you  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop. 

"I  don't  know,  Aunt  Lavinia,"  said  Catherine, 
very  softly.  And,  with  all  his  irony,  her  father  be- 
lieved her. 


Y. 

HE  learned  what  he  had  asked  some  three  or  four 
days  later,  after  Morris  Townsend,  with  his  cousin, 
had  called  in  Washington  Square.  Mrs.  Penniman 
did  not  tell  her  brother,  on  the  drive  home,  that  she 
had  intimated  to  this  agreeable  young  man,  whose 
name  she  did  not  know,  that,  with  her  niece,  she 
should  be  very  glad  to  see  him  ;  but  she  was  greatly 
pleased,  and  even  a  little  flattered,  when,  late  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon,  the  two  gentlemen  made  their 
appearance.  His  coming  with  Arthur  Townsend 
made  it  more  natural  and  easy;  the  latter  young 
man  was  on  the  point  of  becoming  connected  with 
the  family,  and  Mrs.  Penniman  had  remarked  to 
Catherine  that,  as  he  was  going  to  marry  Marian,  it 
would  be  polite  in  him  to  call.  These  events  came 
to  pass  late  in  the  autumn,  and  Catherine  and  her 
aunt  had  been  sitting  together  in  the  closing  dusk, 
by  the  fire-light,  in  the  high  back-parlor. 

Arthur  Townsend  fell  to  Catherine's  portion, 
while  his  companion  placed  himself  on  the  sofa  be- 
side Mrs.  Penniman.  Catherine  had  hitherto  not 
been  a  harsh  critic ;  she  was  easy  to  please — she  liked 


36  WASHINGTON  SQUAKE. 

to  talk  with  young  men.  But  Marian's  betrothed, 
this  evening,  made  her  feel  vaguely  fastidious;  he 
sat  looking  at  the  fire  and  rubbing  his  knees  with 
his  hands.  As  for  Catherine,  she  scarcely  even  pre- 
tended to  keep  up  the  conversation ;  her  attention 
had  fixed  itself  on  the  other  side  of  the  room ;  she 
was  listening  to  what  went  on  between  the  other 
Mr.  Townsend  and  her  aunt.  Every  now  and  then 
he  looked  over  at  Catherine  herself  and  smiled,  as  if 
to  show  that  what  he  said  was  for  her  benefit  too. 
Catherine  would  have  liked  to  change  her  place,  to 
go  and  sit  near  them,  where  she  might  see  and  hear 
him  better.  But  she  was  afraid  of  seeming  bold — 
of  looking  eager;  and,  besides,  it  would  not  have 
been  polite  to  Marian's  little  suitor.  She  wondered 
why  the  other  gentleman  had  picked  out  her  aunt — 
how  he  came  to  have  so  much  to  say  to  Mrs.  Penni- 
man,  to  whom,  usually,  young  men  were  not  espe- 
cially devoted.  She  was  not  at  all  jealous  of  Aunt 
Lavinia,  but  she  was  a  little  envious,  and,  above  all, 
she  wondered ;  for  Morris  Townsend  was  an  object 
on  which  she  found  that  her  imagination  could  ex- 
ercise itself  indefinitely.  His  cousin  had  been  de- 
scribing a  house  that  he  had  taken  in  view  of  his 
union  with  Marian,  and  the  domestic  conveniences 
he  meant  to  introduce  into  it ;  how  Marian  wanted  a 
larger  one,  and  Mrs.  Almond  recommended  a  smaller 
ons,  and  how  he  himself  was  convinced  that  he  had 
got  the  neatest  house  in  New  York. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said ;  "  it's  only  for  three 
or  four  years.  At  the  end  of  three  or  four  years 
we'll  move.  That's  the  way  to  live  in  New  York — 
to  move  every  three  or  four  years.  Then  you  al- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  37 

ways  get  the  last  thing.  It's  because  the  city's 
growing  so  quick — you've  got  to  keep  up  with  it. 
It's  going  straight  up  town — that's  where  New 
York's  going.  If  I  wasn't  afraid  Marian  would  be 
lonely,  I'd  go  up  there — right  up  to  the  top — and 
wait  for  it.  Only  have  to  wait  ten  years — they'll 
all  come  up  after  you.  But  Marian  says  she  wants 
some  neighbors — she  doesn't  want  to  be  a  pioneer. 
She  says  that  if  she's  got  to  be  the  first  settler  she 
had  better  go  out  to  Minnesota.  I  guess  we'll  move 
up  little  by  little ;  when  we  get  tired  of  one  street 
we'll  go  higher.  So  you  see  we'll  always  have  a 
new  house;  it's  a  great  advantage  to  have  a  new 
house ;  you  get  all  the  latest  improvements.  They 
invent  everything  all  over  again  about  every  five 
years,  and  it's  a  great  thing  to  keep  up  with  the  new 
things.  I  always  try  and  keep  up  with  the  new 
things  of  every  kind.  Don't  you  think  that's  a 
good  motto  for  a  young  couple — to  keep  '  going 
higher?'  What's  the  name  of  that  piece  of  poetry 
— what  do  they  call  it  ? — Excelsior  /" 

Catherine  bestowed  on  her  junior  visitor  only  just 
enough  attention  to  feel  that  this  was  not  the  way 
Mr.  Morris  Townsend  had  talked  the  other  night,  or 
that  he  was  talking  now  to  her  fortunate  aunt.  But 
suddenly  his  aspiring  kinsman  became  more  inter- 
esting. He  seemed  to  have  become  conscious  that 
she  was  affected  by  his  companion's  presence,  and 
he  thought  it  proper  to  explain  it. 

"  My  cousin  asked  me  to  bring  him,  or  I  shouldn't 
have  taken  the  liberty.  He  seemed  to  want  very 
much  to  come;  .you  know  he's  awfully  sociable.  I 
told  him  I  wanted  to  ask  you  first,  but  he  said  Mrs. 


38  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

Penniman  had  invited  him.  He  isn't  particular 
what  he  says  when  he  wants  to  come  somewhere. 
But  Mrs.  Penniman  seems  to  think  it's  all  right." 

"  We  are  very  glad  to  see  him,"  said  Catherine. 
And  she  wished  to  talk  more  about  him,  but  she 
hardly  knew  what  to  say.  "I  never  saw  him  be- 
fore," she  went  on,  presently. 

Arthur  Townsend  stared. 

"  Why,  he  told  me  he  talked  with  you  for  over 
half  an  hour  the  other  night." 

"  I  mean  before  the  other  night.  That  was  the 
first  time." 

"  Oh,  he  has  been  away  from  New  York — he  has 
been  all  round  the  world.  He  doesn't  know  many 
people  here,  but  he's  very  sociable,  and  he  wants  to 
know  every  one." 

"  Every  one  ?"  said  Catherine. 

"  Well,  I  mean  all  the  good  ones.  All  the  pretty 
young  ladies — like  Mrs.  Penniman !"  And  Arthur 
Townsend  gave  a  private  laugh. 

"  My  aunt  likes  him  very  much,"  said  Catherine. 

"  Most  people  like  him — he's  so  brilliant." 

"  He's  more  like  a  foreigner,"  Catherine  sug- 
gested. 

"  Well,  I  never  knew  a  foreigner,"  said  young 
Townsend,  in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  indicate  that 
his  ignorance  had  been  optional. 

"  Neither  have  I,"  Catherine  confessed,  with  more 
humility.  "  They  say  they  are  generally  brilliant," 
she  added,  vaguely. 

"  Well,  the  people  of  this  city  are  clever  enough 
for  me.  I  know  some  of  them  that  think  they  are 
too  clever  for  me ;  but  they  ain't." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  39 

"I  suppose  you  can't  be  too  clever,"  said  Cathe- 
rine, still  with  humility. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  know  some  people  that  call 
my  cousin  too  clever." 

Catherine  listened  to  this  statement  with  extreme 
interest,  and  a  feeling  that  if  Morris  Townsend  had 
a  fault  it  would  naturally  be  that  one.  But  she  did 
not  commit  herself,  and  in  a  moment  she  asked, 
"  Now  that  he  has  come  back,  will  he  stay  here 
always  ?" 

"Ah !"  said  Arthur, "  if  he  can  get  something  to  do." 

"  Something  to  do  ?" 

"  Some  place  or  other ;  some  business." 

"Hasn't  he  got  any?"  said  Catherine,  who  had 
never  heard  of  a  young  man — of  the  upper  class — 
in  this  situation. 

"  No ;  he's  looking  round.  But  he  can't  find 
anything." 

."I  am  very  sorry,"  Catherine  permitted  herself 
to  observe. 

"  Oh,  he  doesn't  mind,"  said  young  Townsend. 
"  He  takes  it  easy — he  isn't  in  a  hurry.  He  is  very 
particular." 

Catherine  thought  he  naturally  would  be,  and 
gave  herself  up  for  some  moments  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  this  idea,  in  several  of  its  bearings. 

"  Won't  his  father  take  him  into  his  business — his 
office  ?"  she  at  last  inquired. 

"  He  hasn't  got  any  father — he  has  only  got  a  sis- 
ter. Your  sister  can't  help  you  much." 

It  seemed  to  Catherine  that  if  she  were  his  sister 
she  would  disprove  this  axiom.  "Is  she — is  she 
pleasant  ?"  she  asked  in  a  moment. 


40  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  I  don't  know — I  believe  she's  very  respectable," 
said  young  Townsend.  And  then  he  looked  across 
to  his  cousin  and  began  to  laugh.  "  I  say,  we  are 
talking  about  you,"  he  added. 

Morris  Townsend  paused  in  his  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Penniman,  and  stared,  with  a  little  smile.  Then 
he  got  up,  as  if  he  were  going. 

"  As  far  as  you  are  concerned,  I  can't  return  the 
compliment,"  he  said  to  Catherine's  companion. 
"  But  as  regards  Miss  Sloper,  it's  another  affair." 

Catherine  thought  this  little  speech  wonderfully 
well  turned ;  but  she  was  embarrassed  by  it,  and  she 
also  got  up.  Morris  Townsend  stood  looking  at  her 
and  smiling ;  he  put  out  his  hand  for  farewell.  He 
was  going,  without  having  said  anything  to  her ;  but 
even  on  these  terms  she  was  glad  to  have  seen  him. 

"  I  will  tell  her  what  you  have  said — when  you 
go !"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  with  a  little  significant 
laugh. 

Catherine  blushed,  for  she  felt  almost  as  if  they 
were  making  sport  of  her.  What  in  the  world  could 
this  beautiful  young  man  have  said  ?  He  looked  at 
her  still,  in  spite  of  her  blush,  but  very  kindly  and 
respectfully. 

"  I  have  had  no  talk  with  you,"  he  said,  "  and 
that  was  what  I  came  for.  But  it  will  be  a  good 
reason  for  coming  another  time ;  a  little  pretext — if 
I  am  obliged  to  give  one.  I  am  not  afraid  of  what 
your  aunt  will  say  when  I  go." 

With  this  the  two  young  men  took  their  depart- 
ure ;  after  which  Catherine,  with  her  blush  still  lin- 
gering, directed  a  serious  and  interrogative  eye  to 
Mrs.  Penniman.  She  was  incapable  of  elaborate  ar- 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  41 

tifice,  and  she  resorted  to  no  jocular  device — to  no 
affectation  of  the  belief  that  she  had  been  maligned 
— to  learn  what  she  desired. 

"What  did  you  say  you  would  tell  me?"  she 
asked. 

Mrs.  Penniman  came  up  to  her,  smiling  and  nod- 
ding a  little,  looked  at  her  all  over,  and  gave  a  twist 
to  the  knot  of  ribbon  in  her  neck.  "  It's  a  great  se- 
cret, my  dear  child ;  but  he  is  coming  a-courting !" 

Catherine  was  serious  still.  "  Is  that  what  he  told 
you  ?" 

"  He  didn't  say  so  exactly ;  but  he  left  me  to 
guess  it.  I'm  a  good  guesser." 

"  Do  you  mean  a-courting  me  ?" 

"  Not  me,  certainly,  miss ;  though  I  must  say  he 
is  a  hundred  times  more  polite  to  a  person  who  has 
no  longer  extreme  youth  to  recommend  her  than 
most  of  the  young  men.  He  is  thinking  of  some 
one  else."  And  Mrs.  Penniman  gave  her  niece  a 
delicate  little  kiss.  "  You  must  be  very  gracious  to 
him." 

Catherine  stared — she  was  bewildered.  "  I  don't 
understand  you,"  she  said ;  "  he  doesn't  know  me." 

"  Oh  yes,  he  does ;  more  than  you  think.  I  have 
told  him  all  about  you." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Penniman  !"  murmured  Catherine,  as 
if  this  had  been  a  breach  of  trust.  "  He  is  a  perfect 
stranger — we  don't  know  him."  There  was  infinite 
modesty  in  the  poor  girl's  "  we." 

Aunt  Penniman,  however,  took  no  account  of  it ; 
she  spoke  even  with  a  touch  of  acrimony.  "My 
dear  Catherine,  you  know  very  well  that  you  ad- 
mire him." 


42  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Penniman !"  Catherine  could  only 
murmur  again.  It  might  very  well  be  that  she 
admired  him  —  though  this  did  not  seem  to  her  a 
thing  to  talk  about.  But  that  this  brilliant  stran- 
ger— this  sudden  apparition,  who  had  barely  heard 
the  sound  of  her  voice — took  that  sort  of  interest 
in  her  that  was  expressed  by  the  romantic  phrase  of 
which  Mrs.  Penniman  had  just  made  use — this  could 
only  be  a  figment  of  the  restless  brain  of  Aunt  La- 
vinia,  whom  every  one  knew  to  be  a  woman  of  pow- 
erful imagination. 


YI. 

MRS.  PENNIMAN  even  took  for  granted  at  times 
that  other  people  had  as  much  imagination  as  her- 
self ;  so  that  when,  half  an  hour  later,  her  brother 
came  in,  she  addressed  him  quite  on  this  principle. 

"  He  has  just  been  here,  Austin  ;  it's  such  a  pity 
you  missed  him." 

"Whom  in  the  world  have  I  missed?"  asked  the 
Doctor. 

"  Mr.  Morris  Townsend ;  he  has  made  us  such  a 
delightful  visit." 

"  And  who  in  the  world  is  Mr.  Morris  Townsend  ?" 

"  Aunt  Penniman  means  the  gentleman — the  gen- 
tleman whose  name  I  couldn't  remember,"  said  Cath- 
erine. 

"  The  gentleman  at  Elizabeth's  party  who  was  so 
struck  with  Catherine,"  Mrs.  Penniman  added. 

"  Oh,  his  name  is  Morris  Townsend,  is  it  ?  And 
did  he  come  here  to  propose  to  you  ?" 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  43 

"  Oh,  father !"  murmured  the  girl  for  an  answer, 
turning  away  to  the  window,  where  the  dusk  had 
deepened  to  darkness. 

"  I  hope  he  won't  do  that  without  your  permis- 
sion," said  Mrs.  Penniman,  very  graciously. 

"  After  all,  my  dear,  he  seems  to  have  yours,"  her 
brother  answered. 

Lavinia  simpered,  as  if  this  might  not  be  quite 
enough,  arid  Catherine,  with  her  forehead  touching 
the  window-panes,  listened  to  this  exchange  of  epi- 
grams as  reservedly  as  if  they  had  not  each  been  a 
pin-prick  in  her  own  destiny. 

"The  next  time  he  comes,"  the  Doctor  added, 
"you  had  better  call  me.  He  might  like  to  see 
me." 

Morris  Townsend  came  again  some  five  days  after- 
ward ;  but  Doctor  Sloper  was  not  called,  as  he  was 
absent  from  home  at  the  time.  Catherine  was  with 
her  aunt  when  the  young  man's  name  was  brought 
in,  and  Mrs.  Penniman,  effacing  herself  and  protest- 
ing, made  a  great  point  of  her  niece's  going  into  the 
drawing-room  alone. 

"  This  time  it's  for  you — for  you  only,"  she  said. 
"  Before,  when  he  talked  to  me,  it  was  only  prelim- 
inary— it  was  to  gain  my  confidence.  Literally,  my 
dear,  I  should  not  have  the  courage  to  show  myself 
to-day." 

And  this  was  perfectly  true.  Mrs.  Penniman  was 
not  a  brave  woman, and  Morris  Townsend  had  struck 
her  as  a  young  man  of  great  force  of  character,  and 
of  remarkable  powers  of  satire  —  a  keen,  resolute, 
brilliant  nature,  with  which  one  must  exercise  a 
great  deal  of  tact.  She  said  to  herself  that  he  was 


44  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  imperious,"  and  she  liked  the  word  and  the  idea. 
She  was  not  the  least  jealous  of  her  niece,  and  she 
had  been  perfectly  happy  with  Mr.  Penniman,  but 
in  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  permitted  herself  the 
observation,  "  That's  the  sort  of  husband  I  should 
have  had !"  He  was  certainly  much  more  imperi- 
ous—  she  ended  by  calling  it  imperial  —  than  Mr. 
Penniman. 

So  Catherine  saw  Mr.  Townsend  alone,  and  her 
aunt  did  not  come  in  even  at  the  end  of  the  visit. 
The  visit  was  a  long  one ;  he  sat  there,  in  the  front 
parlor,  in  the  biggest  arm-chair,  for  more  than  an 
hour.  He  seemed  more  at  home  this  time — more 
familiar ;  lounging  a  little  in  the  chair,  slapping  a 
cushion  "that  was  near  him  with  his  stick,  and  look- 
ing round  the  room  a  good  deal,  and  at  the  objects 
it  contained,  as  well  as  at  Catherine;  whom,  how- 
ever, he  also  contemplated  freely.  There  was  a 
smile  of  respectful  devotion  in  his  handsome  eyes 
which  seemed  to  Catherine  almost  solemnly  beauti- 
ful ;  it  made  her  think  of  a  young  knight  in  a  poem. 
His  talk,  however,  was  not  particularly  knightly ;  it 
was  light  and  easy  and  friendly ;  it  took  a  practical 
turn,  and  he  asked  a  number  of  questions  about  her- 
self— what  were  her  tastes — if  she  liked  this  and  that 
—what  were  her  habits.  He  said  to  her,  with  his 
charming  smile,  "  Tell  me  about  yourself ;  give  me 
a  little  sketch."  Catherine  had  very  little  to  tell, 
and  she  had  no  talent  for  sketching ;  but  before  he 
went  she  had  confided  to  him  that  she  had  a  secret 
passion  for  the  theatre,  which  had  been  but  scantily 
gratified,  and  a  taste  for  operatic  music — that  of  Bel- 
lini and  Donizetti,  in  especial  (it  must  be  remembered, 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  45 

in  extenuation  of  this  primitive  young  woman,  that 
she  held  these  opinions  in  an  age  of  general  dark- 
ness)— which  she  rarely  had  an  occasion  to  hear,  ex- 
cept on  the  hand-organ.  She  confessed  that  she  was 
not  particularly  fond  of  literature.  Morris  Towns- 
end  agreed  with  her  that  books  were  tiresome 
things ;  only,  as  he  said,  you  had  to  read  a  good 
many  before  you  found  it  out.  He  had  been  to 
places  that  people  had  written  books  about,  and  they 
were  not  a  bit  like  the  descriptions.  To  see  for  your- 
self— that  was  the  great  thing  ;  he  always  tried  to  see 
for  himself.  He  had  seen  all  the  principal  actors- 
he  had  been  to  all  the  best  theatres  in  London  and 
Paris.  But  the  actors  were  always  like  the  authors 
— they  always  exaggerated.  He  liked  everything  to 
be  natural.  Suddenly  he  stopped,  looking  at  Cath- 
erine with  his  smile. 

"  That's  what  I  like  you  for ;  you  are  so  natural. 
Excuse  me,"  he  added ;  "  you  see  I  am  natural  my- 
self." 

And  before  she  had  time  to  think  whether  she 
excused  him  or  not — which  afterward,  at  leisure,  she 
became  conscious  that  she  did — he  began  to  talk 
about  music,  and  to  say  that  it  was  his  greatest  pleas- 
ure in  life.  He  had  heard  all  the  great  singers  in 
Paris  and  London — Pasta  and  Rubin i  and  Lablache 
— and  when  you  had  done  that,  you  could  say  that 
you  knew  what  singing  was. 

"  I  sing  a  little  myself,"  he  said ;  "  some  day  I 
will  show  you.  Not  to-day,  but  some  other  time." 

And  then  he  got  up  to  go.  He  had  omitted,  by 
accident,  to  say  that  he  would  sing  to  her  if  she 
would  play  to  him.  He  thought  of  this  after  he 


46  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

got  into  the  street;  but  he  might  have  spared  his 
compunction,  for  Catherine  had  not  noticed  the  lapse. 
She  was  thinking  only  that  "  some  other  time  "  had 
a  delightful  sound ;  it  seemed  to  spread  itself  over 
the  future. 

This  was  all  the  more  reason,  however,  though 
she  was  ashamed  and  uncomfortable,  why  she  should 
tell  her  father  that  Mr.  Morris  Townsend  had  called 
again.  She  announced  the  fact  abruptly,  almost 
violently,  as  soon  as  the  Doctor  came  into  the 
house ;  and  having  done  so — it  was  her  duty — she 
took  measures  to  leave  the  room.  But  she  could 
not  leave  it  fast  enough;  her  father  stopped  her 
just  as  she  reached  the  door. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  did  he  propose  to  you  to-day  ?" 
the  Doctor  asked. 

This  was  just  what  she  had  been  afraid  he  would 
say ;  and  yet  she  had  no  answer  ready.  Of  course 
she  would  have  liked  to  take  it  as  a  joke — as  her 
father  must  have  meant  it ;  and  yet  she  would  have 
liked  also,  in  denying  it,  to  be  a  little  positive,  a  lit- 
tle sharp,  so  that  he  would  perhaps  not  ask  the  ques- 
tion again.  She  didn't  like  it — it  made  her  unhap- 
py. But  Catherine  could  never  be  sharp ;  and  for 
a  moment  she  only  stood,  with  her  hand  on  the  door- 
knob, looking  at  her  satiric  parent,  and  giving  a 
little  laugh. 

"Decidedly,"  said  the  Doctor  to  himself,  "my 
daughter  is  not  brilliant !" 

But  he  had  no  sooner  made  this  reflection  than 
Catherine  found  something ;  she  had  decided,  on  the 
whole,  to  take  the  thing  as  a  joke. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  do  it  the  next  time,"  she  ex- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  47 

claimed,  with  a  repetition  of  her  laugh ;  and  she 
quickly  got  out  of  the  room. 

The  Doctor  stood  staring;  he  wondered  whether 
his  daughter  were  serious.  Catherine  went  straight 
to  her  own  room,  and  by  the  time  she  reached  it 
she  bethought  herself  that  there  was  something  else 
— something  better — she  might  have  said.  She  al- 
most wished,  now,  that  her  father  would  ask  his 
question  again,  so  that  she  might  reply,  "  Oh  yes, 
Mr.  Morris  Townsend  proposed  to  me,  and  I  refused 
him." 

The  Doctor,  however,  began  to  put  his  questions 
elsewhere ;  it  naturally  having  occurred  to  him  that 
he  ought  to  inform  himself  properly  about  this 
handsome  young  man,  who  had  formed  the  habit  of 
running  in  and  out  of  his  house.  He  addressed 
himself  to  the  elder  of  his  sisters,  Mrs.  Almond — 
not  going  to  her  for  the  purpose ;  there  was  no  such 
hurry  as  that ;  but  having  made  a  note  of  the  mat- 
ter for  the  first  opportunity.  The  Doctor  was  never 
eager,  never  impatient  or  nervous;  but  he  made 
notes  of  everything,  and  he  regularly  consulted  his 
notes.  Among  them  the  information  he  obtained 
from  Mrs.  Almond  about  Morris  Townsend  took  its 
place. 

"  Lavinia  has  already  been  to  ask  me,"  she  said. 
"  Lavinia  is  most  excited ;  I  don't  understand  it. 
It's  not,  after  all,  Lavinia  that  the  young  man  is 
supposed  to  have  designs  upon.  She  is  very  pecul- 
iar." 

"  Ah,  my  dear,"  the  Doctor  replied,  "  she  has  not 
lived  with  me  these  twelve  years  without  my  finding 
it  out." 


48  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  She  has  got  such  an  artificial  mind,"  said  Mrs. 
Almond,  who  always  enjoyed  an  opportunity  to  dis- 
cuss Lavinia's  peculiarities  with  her  brother.  "  She 
didn't  want  me  to  tell  you  that  she  had  asked  me 
about  Mr.  Townsend  ;  but  I  told  her  I  would.  She 
always  wants  to  conceal  everything." 

"And  yet  at  moments  no  one  blurts  things  out 
with  such  crudity.  She  is  like  a  revolving  light- 
house— pitch  darkness  alternating  with  a  dazzling 
brilliancy !  But  what  did  you  tell  her  ?"  the  Doctor 
asked. 

"What  I  tell  you— that  I  know  very  little  of 
him." 

"Lavinia  must  have  been  disappointed  at  that," 
said  the  Doctor;  "she  would  prefer  him  to  have 
been  guilty  of  some  romantic  crime.  However,  we 
must  make  the  best  of  people.  They  tell  me  our 
gentleman  is  the  cousin  of  the  little  boy  to  whom 
you  are  about  to  intrust  the  future  of  your  little 
girl." 

"Arthur  is  not  a  little  boy ;  he  is  a  very  old  man ; 
you  and  I  will  never  be  so  old !  He  is  a  distant 
relation  of  Lavinia's  protege.  The  name  is  the  same, 
but  I  am  given  to  understand  that  there  are  Towns- 
ends  and  Townsends.  So  Arthur's  mother  tells  me ; 
she  talked  about  'branches' — younger  branches, 
elder  branches,  inferior  branches — as  if  it  were  a 
royal  house.  Arthur,  it  appears,  is  of  the  reigning 
line,  but  poor  Lavinia's  young  man  is  not.  Beyond 
this,  Arthur's  mother  knows  very  little  about  him ; 
she  has  only  a  vague  story  that  he  has  been  'wild.' 
But  I  know  his  sister  a  little,  and  she  is  a  very  nice 
woman.  Her  name  is  Mrs.  Montgomery ;  she  is  a 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  49 

widow,  with  a  little  property  and  five  children.  She 
lives  in  the  Second  Avenue." 

"  What  does  Mrs.  Montgomery  say  about  him  ?" 

"  That  he  has  talents  by  which  he  might  distin- 
guish himself." 

"Only  he  is  lazy,  eh?" 

"  She  doesn't  say  so." 

"That's  family  pride,"  said  the  Doctor.  "What 
is  his  profession  ?" 

"  He  hasn't  got  any ;  he  is  looking  for  something. 
I  believe  he  was  once  in  the  Navy." 

"  Once  ?     What  is  his  age  ?" 

"  I  suppose  he  is  upward  of  thirty.  He  must  have 
gone  into  the  Navy  very  young.  I  think  Arthur 
told  me  that  he  inherited  a  small  property- — which 
was  perhaps  the  cause  of  his  leaving  the  Navy — and 
that  he  spent  it  all  in  a  few  years.  He  travelled  all 
over  the  world,  lived  abroad,  amused  himself.  I  be- 
lieve it  was  a  kind  of  system,  a  theory  he  had.  He 
has  lately  come  back  to  America  with  the  intention, 
as  he  tells  Arthur,  of  beginning  life  in  earnest." 

"  Is  he  in  earnest  about  Catherine,  then  ?" 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  incredulous,"  said 
Mrs.  Almond.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  never 
done  Catherine  justice.  You  must  remember  that 
she  has  the  prospect  of  thirty  thousand  a  year." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  his  sister  a  moment,  and 
then,  with  lightest  touch  of  bitterness,  "  You  at  least 
appreciate  her,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Almond  blushed. 

"I  don't  mean  that  is  her  only  merit;  I  simply 
mean  that  it  is  a  great  one.  A  great  many  young 
men  think  so ;  and  you  appear  to  me  never  to  have 

4: 


50  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

been  properly  aware  of  that.  You  have  always  had 
a  little  way  of  alluding  to  her  as  an  un marriageable 
girl." 

"My  allusions  are  as  kind  as  yours,  Elizabeth," 
said  the  Doctor,  frankly.  "  How  many  suitors  has 
Catherine  had,  with  all  her  expectations — how  much 
attention  has  she  ever  received?  Catherine  is  not 
unmarriageable,  but  she  is  absolutely  unattractive. 
What  other  reason  is  there  for  Lavinia  being  so 
charmed  with  the  idea  that  there  is  a  lover  in  the 
house  ?  There  has  never  been  one  before,  and  La- 
vinia, with  her  sensitive,  sympathetic  nature,  is  not 
used  to  the  idea.  It  affects  her  imagination.  I  must 
do  the  young  men  of  New  York  the  justice  to  say 
that  they  strike  me  as  very  disinterested.  They 
prefer  pretty  girls — lively  girls — girls  like  your  own. 
Catherine  is  neither  pretty  nor  lively." 

"  Catherine  does  very  well ;  she  has  a  style  of  her 
own — which  is  more  than  my  poor  Marian  has,  who 
has  no  style  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Almond.  "  The  reason 
Catherine  has  received  so  little  attention,  is  that  she 
seems  to  all  the  young  men  to  be  older  than  them- 
selves. She  is  so  large,  and  she  dresses  so  richly. 
They  are  rather  afraid  of  her,  I  think ;  she  looks  as 
if  she  had  been  married  already,  and  you  know  they 
don't  like  married  women.  And  if  our  young  men 
appear  disinterested,"  the  Doctor's  wiser  sister  went 
on,  "  it  is  because  they  marry,  as  a  general  thing,  so 
young — before  twenty-five,  at  the  age  of  innocence 
and  sincerity — before  the  age  of  calculation.  If  they 
only  waited  a  little,  Catherine  would  fare  better." 

"As  a  calculation?  Thank  you  very  much,"  said 
the  Doctor. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  51 

"Wait  till  some  intelligent  man  of  forty  comes 
along,  and  he  will  be  delighted  with  Catherine,"  Mrs. 
Almond  continued. 

"  Mr.  Townsend  is  not  old  enough,  then  ?  His  mo- 
tives may  be  pure." 

"  It  is  very  possible  that  his  motives  are  pure ;  I 
should  be  very  sorry  to  take  the  contrary  for  grant- 
ed. Lavinia  is  sure  of  it;  and,  as  he  is  a  very  pre- 
possessing youth,  you  might  give  him  the  benefit  of 
the  doubt." 

Doctor  Sloper  reflected  a  moment. 

"  "What  are  his  present  means  of  subsistence  ?" 

"  I  have  no  idea.    He  lives,  as  I  say,  with  his  sister." 

"  A  widow,  with  five  children  ?  Do  you  mean  he 
lives  upon  her  ?" 

Mrs.  Almond  got  up,  and  with  a  certain  impa- 
tience, "  Had  you  not  better  ask  Mrs.  Montgomery 
herself  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  Perhaps  I  may  come  to  that,"  said  the  Doctor. 
"Did  you  say  the  Second  Avenue?"  He  made  a 
note  of  the  Second  Avenue. 


52 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 


VII. 


HE  was,  however,  by  no  means  so  much  in  earnest 
as  this  might  seem  to  indicate ;  and,  indeed,  he  was 
more  than  anything  else  amused  with  the  whole  sit- 
uation. He  was  not  in  the  least  in  a  state  of  tension 
or  of  vigilance  with  regard  to  Catherine's  prospects ; 
he  was  even  on  his  guard  against  the  ridicule  that 
might  attach  itself  to  the  spectacle  of  a  house 


WASHINGTON  SQUAKE.  53 

thrown  into  agitation  by  its  daughter  and  heiress 
receiving  attentions  unprecedented  in  its  annals. 
More  than  this,  he  went  so  far  as  to  promise  him- 
self some  entertainment  from  the  little  drama — if 
drama  it  was — of  which  Mrs.  Penniman  desired  to 
represent  the  ingenious  Mr.  Townsend  as  the  hero. 
He  had  no  intention,  as  yet,  of  regulating  the  denoue 
ment.  He  was  perfectly  willing,  as  Elizabeth  had 
suggested,  to  give  the  young  man  the  benefit  of  ev- 
ery doubt.  There  was  no  great  danger  in  it;  for 
Catherine,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  was,  after  all,  a 
rather  mature  blossom,  such  as  could  be  plucked  from 
the  stem  only  by  a  vigorous  jerk.  The  fact  that 
Morris  Townsend  was  poor,  was  not  of  necessity 
against  him ;  the  Doctor  had  never  made  up  his 
mind  that  his  daughter  should  marry  a  rich  man. 
The  fortune  she  would  inherit  struck  him  as  a  very 
sufficient  provision  for  two  reasonable  persons,  and 
if  a  penniless  swain  who  could  give  a  good  account 
of  himself  should  enter  the  lists,  he  should  be  judged 
quite  upon  his  personal  merits.  There  were  other 
things  besides.  The  Doctor  thought  it  very  vulgar 
to  be  precipitate  in  accusing  people  of  mercenary 
motives,  inasmuch  as  his  door  had  as  yet  not  been 
in  the  least  besieged  by  fortune-hunters ;  and,  lastly, 
he  was  very  curious  to  see  whether  Catherine  might 
really  be  loved  for  her  moral  worth.  He  smiled  as 
he  reflected  that  poor  Mr.  Townsend  had  been  only 
twice  to  the  house,  and  he  said  to  Mrs.  Penniman 
that  the  next  time  he  should  come  she  must  ask  him 
to  dinner. 

He  came  very  soon  again,  and  Mrs.  Penniman  had 
of  course  great  pleasure  in  executing  this  mission. 


54  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

Morris  Townsend  accepted  her  invitation  with  equal 
good  grace,  and  the  dinner  took  place  a  few  days 
later.  The  Doctor  had  said  to  himself,  justly 
enough,  that  they  must  not  have  the  young  man 
alone  ;  this  would  partake  too  much  of  the  nature  of 
encouragement.  So  two  or  three  other  persons  were 
invited;  but  Morris  Townsend,  though  he  was  by 
no  means  the  ostensible,  was  the  real  occasion  of  the 
feast.  There  is  every  reason  to  suppose  that  he  de- 
sired to  make  a  good  impression  ;  and  if  he  fell  short 
of  this  result,  it  was  not  for  want  of  a  good  deal  of 
intelligent  effort.  The  Doctor  talked  to  him  very 
little  during  dinner  ;  but  he  observed  him  attentive- 
ly, and  after  the  ladies  had  gone  out  he  pushed  him 
the  wine  and  asked  him  several  questions.  Morris 
was  not  a  young  man  who  needed  to  be  pressed,  and 
he  found  quite  enough  encouragement  in  the  supe- 
rior quality  of  the  claret.  The  Doctor's  wine  was 
admirable,  and  it  may  be  communicated  to  the  read- 
er that  while  he  sipped  it  Morris  reflected  that  a  cel- 
larful  of  good  liquor — there  was  evidently  a  cellar- 
ful  here — would  be  a  most  attractive  idiosyncrasy 
in  a  father-in-law.  The  Doctor  was  struck  with  his 
appreciative  guest ;  he  saw  that  he  was  not  a  com- 
monplace young  man.  "  He  has  ability,"  said  Cathe- 
rine's father,  "  decided  ability ;  he  has  a  very  good 
head  if  he  chooses  to  use  it.  And  he  is  uncommon- 
ly well  turned  out;  quite  the  sort  of  figure  that 
pleases  the  ladies ;  but  I  don't  think  I  like  him." 
The  Doctor,  however,  kept  his  reflections  to  himself, 
and  talked  to  his  visitors  about  foreign  lands,  con- 
cerning which  Morris  offered  him  more  information 
than  he  was  ready,  as  he  mentally  phrased  it,  to 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  55 

swallow.  Doctor  Sloper  had  travelled  but  little,  and 
he  took  the  liberty  of  not  believing  everything  that 
his  talkative  guest  narrated.  He  prided  himself  on 
being  something  of  a  physiognomist ;  and  while  the 
young  man,  chatting  with  easy  assurance,  puffed  his 
cigar  and  filled  his  glass  again,  the  Doctor  sat  with 
his  eyes  quietly  fixed  on  his  bright,  expressive  face. 
"  He  has  the  assurance  of  the  devil  himself !"  said 
Morris's  host ;  "  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  such  assur- 
ance. And  his  powers  of  invention  are  most  re- 
markable. He  is  very  knowing ;  they  were  not  so 
knowing  as  that  in  my  time.  And  a  good  head,  did 
I  say?  I  should  think  so — after  a  bottle  of  Madeira, 
and  a  bottle  and  a  half  of  claret !" 

After  dinner  Morris  Townsend  went  and  stood 
before  Catherine,  who  was  standing  before  the  fire 
in  her  red  satin  gown. 

"  He  doesn't  like  me — he  doesn't  like  me  at  all," 
said  the  young  man. 

"  Who  doesn't  like  you  ?"  asked  Catherine. 

"  Your  father  ;  extraordinary  man !" 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  know,"  said  Catherine, 
blushing. 

"  I  feel ;  I  am  very  quick  to  feel." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  mistaken." 

"  Ah,  well !  you  ask  him,  and  you  will  see." 

"  I  would  rather  not  ask  him,  if  there  is  any  dan- 
ger of  his  saying  what  you  think." 

Morris  looked  at  her  with  an  air  of  mock  mel- 
ancholy. 

"  It  wouldn't  give  you  any  pleasure  to  contradict 
him  F 

"  I  never  contradict  him,"  said  Catherine. 


56  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  Will  you  hear  me  abused  without  opening  your 
lips  in  my  defence  ?" 

"  My  father  won't  abuse  you.  He  doesn't  know 
you  enough." 

Morris  Townsend  gave  a  loud  laugh,  and  Cathe- 
rine began  to  blush  again. 

"  I  shall  never  mention  yon,"  she  said,  to  take 
refuge  from  her  confusion. 

"  That  is  very  well ;  but  it  is  not  quite  what  I 
should  have  liked  you  to  say.  I  should  have  liked 
you  to  say, '  If  my  father  doesn't  think  well  of  you, 
what  does  it  matter  ?' ': 

"  Ah,  but  it  would  matter ;  I  couldn't  say  that !" 
the  girl  exclaimed. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  smiling  a  little ; 
and  the  Doctor,  if  he  had  been  watching  him  just 
then,  would  have  seen  a  gleam  of  fine  impatience  in 
the  sociable  softness  of  his  eye.  But  there  was  no  im- 
patience in  his  rejoinder — none,  at  least,  save  what  was 
expressed  in  a  little  appealing  sigh.  "  Ah,  well !  then 
I  must  not  give  up  the  hope  of  bringing  him  round." 

He  expressed  it  more  frankly  to  Mrs.  Penniman 
later  in  the  evening.  But  before  that  he  sung  two 
or  three  songs  at  Catherine's  timid  request ;  not  that 
he  flattered  himself  that  this  would  help  to  bring 
her  father  round.  He  had  a  sweet  light  tenor  voice, 
and,  when  he  had  finished,  every  one  made  some  ex- 
clamation—  every  one,  that  is,  save  Catherine,  who 
remained  intensely  silent.  Mrs.  Penniman  declared 
that  his  manner  of  singing  was  "  most  artistic,"  and 
Doctor  Sloper  said  it  was  "very  taking — very  tak- 
ing, indeed;"  speaking  loudly  and  distinctly,  but 
with  a  certain  dryness, 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  59 

"He  doesn't  like  me — he  doesn't  like  me  at  all," 
said  Morris  Town  send,  addressing  the  aunt  in  the 
same  manner  as  he  had  done  the  niece.  "  He  thinks 
I  am  all  wrong." 

Unlike  her  niece,  Mrs.  Penniman  asked  for  no  ex- 
planation. She  only  smiled  very  sweetly,  as  if  she 
understood  everything ;  and,  unlike  Catherine  too, 
she  made  no  attempt  to  contradict  him.  "Pray, 
what  does  it  matter  ?"  she  murmured,  softly. 

"Ah, you  say  the  right  thing!"  said  Morris, great- 
ly to  the  gratification  of  Mrs.  Penniman,  who  prided 
herself  on  always  saying  the  right  thing. 

The  Doctor,  the  next  time  he  saw  his  sister  Eliza- 
beth, let  her  know  that  he  had  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Lavinia's  protege. 

"  Physically,"  he  said,  "  he's  uncommonly  well  set 
up.  As  an  anatomist,  it  is  really  a  pleasure  to  me 
to  see  such  a  beautiful  structure ;  although,  if  peo- 
ple were  all  like  him,  I  suppose  there  would  be  very 
little  need  for  doctors." 

"  Don't  you  see  anything  in  people  but  their 
bones  ?"  Mrs.  Almond  rejoined.  "  What  do  you 
think  of  him  as  a  father  ?" 

"As  a  father?  Thank  Heaven,  I  am  not  his 
father !" 

"  No  ;  but  you  are  Catherine's.  Lavinia  tells  me 
she  is  in  love." 

"  She  must  get  over  it.     He  is  not  a  gentleman." 

"  Ah,  take  care !  Eemember  that  he  is  a  branch 
of  the  Townsends." 

"  He  is  not  what  I  call  a  gentleman  ;  he  has  not 
the  soul  of  one.  He  is  extremely  insinuating ;  but 
it's  a  vulgar  nature.  I  saw  through  it  in  a  minute. 


60  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

He  is  altogether  too  familiar; — I  hate  familiarity. 
He  is  a  plausible  coxcomb." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Almond,  " if  you  make  up 
your  mind  so  easily,  it's  a  great  advantage." 

"I  don't  make  up  my  mind  easily.  What  I  tell 
you  is  the  result  of  thirty  years  of  observation ; 
and  in  order  to  be  able  to  form  that  judgment  in  a 
single  evening,  I  have  had  to  spend  a  lifetime  in 
study." 

"  Very  possibly  you  are  right.  But  the  thing  is 
for  Catherine  to  see  it." 

"  I  will  present  her  with  a  pair  of  spectacles !" 
said  the  Doctor. 


YIIL 

IF  it  were  true  that  she  was  in  love,  she  was  cer- 
tainly very  quiet  about  it;  but  the  Doctor  was  of 
course  prepared  to  admit  that  her  quietness  might 
mean  volumes.  She  had  told  Morris  Town  send  that 
she  would  not  mention  him  to  her  father,  and  she 
saw  no  reason  to  retract  this  vow  of  discretion.  It 
was  no  more  than  decently  civil,  of  course,  that,  after 
having  dined  in  Washington  Square,  Morris  should 
call  there  again ;  and  it  was  no  more  than  natural 
that,  having  been  kindly  received  on  this  occasion, 
he  should  continue  to  present  himself.  He  had  had 
plenty  of  leisure  on  his  hands  ;  and  thirty  years  ago, 
in  New  York,  a  young  man  of  leisure  had  reason  to 
be  thankful  for  aids  to  self-oblivion.  Catherine  said 
nothing  to  her  father  about  these  visits,  though  they 
had  rapidly  become  the  most  important,  the  most 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  61 

absorbing  thing  in  her  life.  The  girl  was  very  hap- 
py. She  knew  not  as  yet  what  would  come  of  it ; 
but  the  present  had  suddenly  grown  rich  and  sol- 
emn. If  she  had  been  told  she  was  in  love,  she 
would  have  been  a  good  deal  surprised ;  for  she  had 
an  idea  that  love  was  an  eager  and  exacting  passion, 
and  her  own  heart  was  filled  in  these  days  with  the 
impulse  of  self-effacement  and  sacrifice.  Whenever 
Morris  Town  send  had  left  the  house,  her  imagina- 
tion projected  itself,  with  all  its  strength,  into  the 
idea  of  his  soon  coming  back ;  but  if  she  had  been 
told  at  such  a  moment  that  he  would  not  return  for 
a  year,  or  even  that  he  would  never  return,  she  would 
not  have  complained  nor  rebelled,  but  would  have 
humbly  accepted  the  decree,  and  sought  for  consola- 
tion in  thinking-over  the  times  she  had  already  seen 
him,  the  words  he  had  spoken,  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  of  his  tread,  the  expression  of  his  face.  Love 
demands  certain  things  as  a  right;  but  Catherine 
had  no  sense  of  her  rights;  she  had  only  a  con- 
sciousness of  immense  and  unexpected  favors.  Her 
very  gratitude  for  these  things  had  hushed  itself; 
for  it  seemed  to  her  that  there  would  be  something 
of  impudence  in  making  a  festival  of  her  secret. 
Her  father  suspected  Morris  Townsend's  visits,  and 
noted  her  reserve.  She  seemed  to  beg  pardon  for 
it ;  she  looked  at  him  constantly  in  silence,  as  if  she 
meant  to  say  that  she  said  nothing  because  she  was 
afraid  of  irritating  him.  But  the  poor  girl's  dumb 
eloquence  irritated  him  more  than  anything  else 
would  have  done,  and  he  caught  himself  murmuring 
more  than  once  that  it  was  a  grievous  pity  his  only 
child  was  a  simpleton.  His  murmurs,  however,  were 


62  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

inaudible;  and  for  awhile  he  said  nothing  to  any 
one.  He  would  have  liked  to  know  exactly  how 
often  young  Town  send  came ;  but  he  had  deter- 
mined to  ask  no  questions  of  the  girl  herself — to 
say  nothing  more  to  her  that  would  show  that  he 
watched  her.  The  Doctor  had  a  great  idea  of  being 
largely  just:  he  wished  to  leave  his  daughter  her 
liberty,  and  interfere  only  when  the  danger  should 
be  proved.  It  was  not  in  his  manner  to  obtain  in- 
formation by  indirect  methods,  and  it  never  even  oc- 
curred to  him  to  question  the  servants.  As  for  La- 
vinia,  he  hated  to  talk  to  her  about  the  matter ;  she 
annoyed  him  with  her  mock  romanticism.  But  he 
had  to  come  to  this.  Mrs.  Penniman's  convictions 
as  regards  the  relations  of  her  niece  and  the  clever 
young  visitor,  who  saved  appearances  by  coming  os- 
tensibly for  both  the  ladies — ]V(rs.  Penniman's  con- 
victions had  passed  into  a  riper  and  richer  phase. 
There  was  to  be  no  crudity  in  Mrs.  Penniman's  treat- 
ment of  the  situation  ;  she  had  become  as  uncom- 
municative as  Catherine  herself.  She  was  tasting 
of  the  sweets  of  concealment ;  she  had  taken  up  the 
line  of  mystery.  "  She  would  be  enchanted  to  be 
able  to  prove  to  herself  that  she  is  persecuted,"  said 
the  Doctor ;  and  when  at  last  he  questioned  her,  he 
was  sure  she  would  contrive  to  extract  from  his 
words  a  pretext  for  this  belief. 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  let  me  know  what  is  going  on 
in  the  house,"  he  said  to  her,  in  a  tone  which,  under 
the  circumstances,  he  himself  deemed  genial. 

"  Going  on,  Austin  ?"  Mrs.  Penniman  exclaimed. 
"  Why,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  I  believe  that  last 
night  the  old  gray  cat  had  kittens." 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  63 

"At  her  age?"  said  the  Doctor.  "The  idea  is 
startling  —  almost  shocking.  Be  so  good  as  to  see 
that  they  are  all  drowned.  But  what  else  has  hap- 
pened ?" 

"Ah,  the  dear  little  kittens!"  cried  Mrs.  Penni- 
man.  "I  wouldn't  have  them  drowned  for  the 
world !" 

Her  brother  puffed  his  cigar  a  few  moments  in 
silence.  "Your  sympathy  with  kittens,  Lavinia," 
he  presently  resumed,  "  arises  from  a  feline  element 
in  your  own  character.'" 

"  Cats  are  very  graceful,  and  very  clean,"  said  Mrs. 
Penniman,  smiling. 

"And  very  stealthy.  You  are  the  embodiment 
both  of  grace  and  of  neatness ;  but  you  are  wanting 
in  frankness." 

"  You  certainly  are  not,  dear  brother." 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  be  graceful,  though  I  try  to 
be  neat.  Why  haven't  you  let  me  know  that  Mr. 
Morris  Townsend  is  coming  to  the  house  four  times 
a  week  ?" 

Mrs.  Penniman  lifted  her  eyebrows.  "  Four  times 
a  week !" 

"  Three  times,  then,  or  five  times,  if  you  prefer  it. 
I  am  away  all  day,  and  I  see  nothing.  But  when 
such  things  happen,  you  should  let  me  know." 

Mrs.  Penniman,  with  her  eyebrows  still  raised,  re- 
flected intently.  "Dear  Austin,"  she  said  at  last, 
"  I  am  incapable  of  betraying  a  confidence.  I  would 
rather  suffer  anything." 

"  Never  fear ;  you  shall  not  suffer.  To  whose  con- 
fidence is  it  you  allude  ?  Has  Catherine  made  you 
take  a  vow  of  eternal  secrecy  ?" 


64  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"By  no  means.  Catherine  has  not  told  me  as 
much  as  she  might.  She  has  not  been  very  trust- 
ful." 

"  It  is  the  young  man,  then,  who  has  made  you  his 
confidante  ?  Allow  me  to  say  that  it  is  extremely  in- 
discreet of  you  to  form  secret  alliances  with  young 
men ;  you  don't  know  where  they  may  lead  you." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  an  alliance," 
said  Mrs.  Penniman.  "I  take  a  great  interest  in 
Mr.  Townsend ;  I  won't  conceal  that.  But  that's 
all." 

"  Under  the  circumstances,  that  is  quite  enough. 
What  is  the  source  of  your  interest  in  Mr.  Towns- 
end  ?" 

"Why,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  musing,  and  then 
breaking  into  her  smile,  "  that  he  is  so  interesting  !" 

The  Doctor  felt  that  he  had  need  of  his  patience. 
"  And  what  makes  him  interesting  ?  —  his  good 
looks?" 

"  His  misfortunes,  Austin." 

"Ah,  he  has  had  misfortunes?  That,  of  course, 
is  always  interesting.  Are  you  at  liberty  to  men- 
tion a  few  of  Mr.  Townsend's  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  he  would  like  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Penniman.  "He  has  told  me  a  great  deal  about 
himself — he  has  told  me,  in  fact,  his  whole  history. 
But  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  repeat  those  things. 
He  would  tell  them  to  you,  I  am  sure,  if  he  thought 
you  would  listen  to  him  kindly.  With  kindness  you 
may  do  anything  with  him." 

The  Doctor  gave  a  laugh.  "  I  shall  request  him 
very  kindly,  then,  to  leave  Catherine  alone." 

"  Ah !"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  shaking  her  forefin- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  65 

ger  at  her  brother,  with  her  little  finger  turned  out, 
"  Catherine  has  probably  said  something  to  him  kind- 
er than  that !" 

"  Said  that  she  loved  him  ? — do  you  mean  that  ?" 

Mrs.  Penniinan  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  floor.  "  As 
I  tell  you,  Austin,  she  doesn't  confide  in  me." 

"You  have  an  opinion,  I  suppose,  all  the  same. 
It  is  that  I  ask  you  for;  though  I  don't  conceal 
from  you  that  I  shall  not  regard  it  as  conclusive." 

Mrs.  Penniman's  gaze  continued  to  rest  on  the 
carpet ;  but  at  last  she  lifted  it,  and  then  her  broth- 
er thought  it  very  expressive.  "I  think  Catherine 
is  very  happy ;  that  is  all  I  can  say." 

"  Townsend  is  trying  to  marry  her — is  that  what 
you  mean  ?" 

"  He  is  greatly  interested  in  her." 

"  He  finds  her  such  an  attractive  girl  ?" 

"  Catherine  has  a  lovely  nature,  Austin,"  said  Mrs. 
Penniman,  "  and  Mr.  Townsend  has  had  the  intelli- 
gence to  discover  that." 

"With  a  little  help  from  you,  I  suppose.  My 
dear  Lavinia,"  cried  the  Doctor,  "  you  are  an  admi- 
rable aunt !" 

"  So  Mr.  Townsend  says,"  observed  Lavinia,  smil- 
ing; 

"  Do  you  think  he  is  sincere  ?"  asked  her  brother. 

"In  saying  that?" 

"  No ;  that's  of  course.  But  in  his  admiration  for 
Catherine?" 

"Deeply  sincere.  He  has  said  to  me  the  most 
appreciative,  the  most  charming  things  about  her. 
He  would  say  them  to  you,  if  he  were  sure  you 
would  listen  to  him — gently." 

5 


66  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"I  doubt  whether  I  can  undertake  it.  He  ap- 
pears to  require  a  great  deal  of  gentleness." 

"  He  is  a  sympathetic,  sensitive  nature,"  said  Mrs. 
Penniman. 

Her  brother  puffed  his  cigar  again  in  silence. 
"  These  delicate  qualities  have  survived  his  vicissi- 
tudes, eh  ?  All  this  while  you  haven't  told  me  about 
his  misfortunes." 

"  It  is  a  long  story,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  "  and  I 
regard  it  as  a  sacred  trust.  But  I  suppose  there  is 
no  objection  to  my  saying  that  he  has  been  wild — 
he  frankly  confesses  that.  But  he  has  paid  for  it." 

"  That's  what  has  impoverished  him,  eh  f ' 

"I  don't  mean  simply  in  money.  He  is  very 
much  alone  in  the  world." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  he  has  behaved  so  badly  that 
his  friends  have  given  him  up  ?" 

"  He  has  had  false  friends,  who  have  deceived  and 
betrayed  him." 

"  He  seems  to  have  some  good  ones  too.  He  has 
a  devoted  sister,  and  half  a  dozen  nephews  and 
nieces." 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  silent  a  minute.  "  The  neph- 
ews and  nieces  are  children,  and  the  sister  is  not  a 
very  attractive  person." 

"I  hope  he  doesn't  abuse  her  to  you,"  said  the 
Doctor ;  "  for  I  am  told  he  lives  upon  her." 

"  Lives  upon  her  ?" 

"  Lives  with  her,  and  does  nothing  for  himself ; 
it  is  about  the  same  thing." 

"  He  is  looking  for  a  position  most  earnestly,"  said 
Mrs.  Penniman.  "  He  hopes  every  day  to  find  one." 

"  Precisely.     He  is  looking  for  it  here — over  there 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  67 

in  the  front  parlor.  The  position  of  husband  of  a 
weak-minded  woman  with  a  large  fortune  would 
suit  him  to  perfection !" 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  truly  amiable,  but  she  now 
gave  signs  of  temper.  She  rose  with  much  anima- 
tion, and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  her  brother. 
"  My  dear  Austin,"  she  remarked,  "  if  you  regard 
Catherine  as  a  weak-minded  woman  you  are  particu- 
larly mistaken !"  And  with  this  she  moved  majes- 
tically away. 


IX. 

IT  was  a  regular  custom  with  the  family  in  Wash- 
ington Square  to  go  and  spend  Sunday  evening  at 
Mrs.  Almond's.  On  the  Sunday  after  the  conversa- 
tion I  have  just  narrated  this  custom  was  not  in- 
termitted ;  and  on  this  occasion,  toward  the  middle 
of  the  evening,  Doctor  Sloper  found  reason  to  with- 
draw to  the  library  with  his  brother-in-law,  to  talk 
over  a  matter  of  business.  He  was  absent  some 
twenty  minutes,  and  when  he  came  back  into  the 
circle,  which  was  enlivened  by  the  presence  of  sev- 
eral friends  of  the  family,  he  saw  that  Morris  Towns- 
end  had  come  in,  and  had  lost  as  little  time  as  pos- 
sible in  seating  himself  on  a  small  sofa  beside  Cathe- 
rine. In  the  large  room,  where  several  different 
groups  had  been  formed,  and  the  hum  of  voices  and 
of  laughter  was  loud,  these  two  young  persons  might 
confabulate,  as  the  Doctor  phrased  it  to  himself, 
without  attracting  attention.  He  saw  in  a  moment, 
however,  that  his  daughter  was  painfully  conscious 


68  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

of  his  own  observation.  She  sat  motionless,  with 
her  eyes  bent  down,  staring  at  her  open  fan,  deeply 
flushed,  shrinking  together  as  if  to  minimize  the  in- 
discretion of  which  she  confessed  herself  guilty. 

The  Doctor  almost  pitied  her.  Poor  Catherine 
was  not  defiant ;  she  had  no  genius  for  bravado,  and 
as  she  felt  that  her  father  viewed  her  companion's 
attentions  with  an  unsympathizing  eye,  there  was 
nothing  but  discomfort  for  her  in  the  accident  of 
seeming  to  challenge  him.  The  Doctor  felt,  indeed, 
so  sorry  for  her  that  he  turned  away,  to  spare  her 
the  sense  of  being  watched ;  and  he  was  so  intelli- 
gent a  man  that,  in  his  thoughts,  he  rendered  a  sort 
of  poetic  justice  to  her  situation. 

"  It  must  be  deucedly  pleasant  for  a  plain,  inani- 
mate girl  like  that  to  have  a  beautiful  young  fellow 
come  and  sit  down  beside  her,  and  whisper  to  her 
that  he  is  her  slave — if  that  is  what  this  one  whis- 
pers. No  wonder  she  likes  it,  and  that  she  thinks 
me  a  cruel  tyrant ;  which  of  course  she  does,  though 
she  is  afraid — she  hasn't  the  animation  necessary — 
to  admit  it  to  herself.  Poor  old  Catherine !"  mused 
the  Doctor;  "I  verily  believe  she  is  capable  of  de- 
fending me  when  Townsend  abuses  me !" 

And  the  force  of  this  reflection,  for  the  moment, 
was  such  in  making  him  feel  the  natural  opposition 
between  his  point  of  view  and  that  of  an  infatuated 
child,  that  he  said  to  himself  that  he  was  perhaps 
after  all  taking  things  too  hard,  and  crying  out  be- 
fore he  was  hurt.  He  must  not  condemn  Morris 
Townsend  unheard.  He  had  a  great  aversion  to 
taking  things  too  hard ;  he  thought  that  half  the 
discomfort  and  many  of  the  disappointments  of  life 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  69 

come  from  it ;  and  for  an  instant  lie  asked  himself 
whether,  possibly,  he  did  not  appear  ridiculous  to 
this  intelligent  young  man,  whose  private  percep- 
tion of  incongruities  he  suspected  of  being  keen. 
At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Catherine  had 
got  rid  of  him,  and  Townsend  was  now  standing  be- 
fore the  fireplace  in  conversation  with  Mrs.  Almond. 

"  We  will  try  him  again,"  said  the  Doctor.  And 
he  crossed  the  room  and  joined  his  sister  and  her 
companion,  making  her  a  sign  that  she  should  leave 
the  young  man  to  him.  She  presently  did  so,  while 
Morris  looked  at  him,  smiling,  without  a  sign  of 
evasiveness  in  his  affable  eye. 

"  He's  amazingly  conceited !"  thought  the  Doctor ; 
and  then  he  said,  aloud,  "  I  am  told  you  are  looking 
out  for  a  position." 

"  Oh,  a  position  is  more  than  I  should  presume 
to  call  it,"  Morris  Townsend  answered.  "  That 
sounds  so  fine.  I  should  like  some  quiet  work — 
something  to  turn  an  honest  penny." 

"  What  sort  of  thing  should  you  prefer  ?" 

"  Do  you  mean  what  am  I  fit  for  ?  Yery  little,  I 
am  afraid.  I  have  nothing  but  my  good  right  arm, 
as  they  say  in  the  melodramas." 

"  You  are  too  modest,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  In  ad- 
dition to  your  good  right  arm  you  have  your  subtle 
brain.  I  know  nothing  of  you  but  what  I  see;  but 
I  see  by  your  physiognomy  that  you  are  extremely 
intelligent." 

"Ah,"  Townsend  murmured, "  I  don't  know  what 
to  answer  when  you  say  that.  You  advise  me,  then, 
not  to  despair  ?" 

And  he  looked  at  his  interlocutor  as  if  the  ques- 


70  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

tion  might  have  a  double  meaning.  The  Doctor 
caught  the  look  and  weighed  it  a  moment  before  he 
replied.  "I  should  be  very  sorry  to  admit  that  a 
robust  and  well-disposed  young  man  need  ever  de- 
spair. If  he  doesn't  succeed  in  one  thing,  he  can 
try  another.  Only,  I  should  add,  he  should  choose 
his  line  with  discretion." 

"  Ah,  yes,  with  discretion,"  Morris  Townsend  re- 
peated, sympathetically.  "Well, I  have  been  indis- 
creet, formerly ;  but  I  think  I  have  got  over  it.  I 
am  very  steady  now."  And  he  stood  a  moment, 
looking  down  at  his  remarkably  neat  shoes.  Then 
at  last,  "Were  you  kindly  intending  to  propose 
something  for  my  advantage  ?"  he  inquired,  looking 
up  and  smiling. 

"D — n  his  impudence!"  the  Doctor  exclaimed, 
privately.  But  in  a  moment  he  reflected  that  he 
himself  had,  after  all,  touched  first  upon  this  delicate 
point,  and  that  his  words  might  have  been  construed 
as  an  offer  of  assistance.  "  I  have  no  particular  pro- 
posal to  make,"  he  presently  said ;  "  but  it  occurred 
to  me  to  let  you  know  that  I  have  you  in  my  mind. 
Sometimes  one  hears  of  opportunities.  For  in- 
stance, should  you  object  to  leaving  New  York — to 
going  to  a  distance  ?" 

"I  am  afraid  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  manage  that. 
I  must  seek  my  fortune  here  or  nowhere.  You  see," 
added  Morris  Townsend,  "  I  have  ties — I  have  re- 
sponsibilities here.  I  have  a  sister,  a  widow,  from 
whom  I  have  been  separated  for  a  long  time,  and  to 
whom  I  am  almost  everything.  I  shouldn't  like  to 
say  to  her  that  I  must  leave  her.  She  rather  de- 
pends upon  me,  you  see." 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  71 

"  All,  that's  very  proper  ;  family  feeling  is  very 
proper,"  said  Doctor  Sloper.  "  I  often  think  there 
is  not  enough  of  it  in  our  city.  I  think  I  have 
heard  of  your  sister." 

"  It  is  possible,  but  I  rather  doubt  it ;  she  lives  so 
very  quietly." 

"As  quietly,  you  mean,"  the  Doctor  went  on, with 
a  short  laugh,  "  as  a  lady  may  do  who  has  several 
young  children." 

"  Ah,  my  little  nephews  and  nieces — that's  the  very 
point !  I  am  helping  to  bring  them  up,"  said  Mor- 
ris Townsend.  "  I  am  a  kind  of  amateur  tutor ;  I 
give  them  lessons." 

"  That's  very  proper,  as  I  say ;  but  it  is  hardly  a 
career." 

"  It  won't  make  my  fortune,"  the  young  man 
confessed. 

"  You  must  not  be  too  much  bent  on  a  fortune," 
said  the  Doctor.  "  But  I  assure  you  I  will  keep  you 
in  mind ;  I  won't  lose  sight  of  you." 

"  If  my  situation  becomes  desperate  I  shall  per- 
haps take  the  liberty  of  reminding  you,"  Morris  re- 
joined, raising  his  voice  a  little,  with  a  brighter  smile, 
as  his  interlocutor  turned  away. 

Before  he  left  the  house  the  Doctor  had  a  few 
words  with  Mrs.  Almond. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  his  sister,"  he  said.  "  What 
do  you  call  her — Mrs.  Montgomery  ?  I  should  like 
to  have  a  little  talk  with  her." 

"  I  will  try  and  manage  it,"  Mrs.  Almond  re- 
sponded. "  I  will  take  the  first  opportunity  of  in- 
viting her,  and  you  shall  come  and  meet  her ; 
unless,  indeed,"  Mrs.  Almond  added,  "  she  first 


72  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

takes  it  into  her  head  to  be  sick  and  to  send  for 
you." 

"Ah  no,  not  that ;  she  must  have  trouble  enough 
without  that.  But  it  would  have  its  advantages,  for 
then  I  should  see  the  children.  I  should  like  very 
much  to  see  the  children." 

"You  are  very  thorough.  Do  you  want  to  cate- 
chise them  about  their  uncle  ?" 

"  Precisely.  Their  uncle  tells  me  he  has  charge 
of  their  education,  that  he  saves  their  mother  the  ex- 
pense of  school-bills.  I  should  like  to  ask  them  a 
few  questions  in  the  commoner  branches." 

"  He  certainly  has  not  the  cut  of  a  school-mas- 
ter," Mrs.  Almond  said  to  herself  a  short  time  after- 
ward, as  she  saw  Morris  Townsend  in  a  corner  bend- 
ing over  her  niece,  who  was  seated. 

And  there  was,  indeed,  nothing  in  the  young 
man's  discourse  at  this  moment  that  savored  of  the 
pedagogue. 

"Will  you  meet  me  somewhere  to-morrow  or 
next  day  ?"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  to  Catherine. 

"  Meet  you  ?"  she  asked,  lifting  her  frightened  eyes. 

"  I  have  something  particular  to  say  to  you — very 
particular." 

"  Can't  you  come  to  the  house  ?  Can't  you  say  it 
there  ?" 

Townsend  shook  his  head  gloomily.  "  I  can't  en- 
ter your  doors  again." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Townsend !"  murmured  Catherine.  She 
trembled  as  she  wondered  what  had  happened — 
whether  her  father  had  forbidden  it. 

"  I  can't,  in  self-respect,"  said  the  young  man. 
"  Your  father  has  insulted  rne." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  73 

"Insulted  you?" 

"  He  has  taunted  me  with  my  poverty." 

"  Oh,  you  are  mistaken — you  misunderstood  him !" 
Catherine  spoke  with  energy,  getting  up  from  her 
chair. 

"Perhaps  I  am  too  proud — too  sensitive.  But 
would  you  have  me  otherwise  ?"  he  asked,  tenderly. 

"  Where  my  father  is  concerned,  you  must  not  be 
sure.  He  is  full  of  goodness,"  said  Catherine. 

"  He  laughed  at  me  for  having  no  position.  I 
took  it  quietly ;  but  only  because  he  belongs  to  you." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Catherine — "  I  don't  know 
what  he  thinks.  I  am  sure  he  means  to  be  kind. 
You  must  not  be  too  proud." 

"  I  will  be  proud  only  of  you,"  Morris  answered. 
"Will  you  meet  me  in  the  Square  in  the  afternoon?" 

A  great  blush  on  Catherine's  part  had  been  the 
answer  to  the  declaration  I  have  just  quoted.  She 
turned  away,  heedless  of  his  question. 

"  Will  you  meet  me  ?"  he  repeated.  "  It  is  very 
quiet  there — no  one  need  see  us — toward  dusk." 

"It  is  you  who  are  unkind,  it  is  you  who  laugh, 
when  you  say  such  things  as  that." 

"  My  dear  girl !"  the  young  man  murmured. 

"  You  know  how  little  there  is  in  me  to  be  proud 
of.  I  am  ugly  and  stupid." 

Morris  greeted  this  remark  with  an  ardent  mur- 
mur, in  which  she  recognized  nothing  articulate  but 
an  assurance  that  she  was  his  own  dearest. 

But  she  went  on.  "I  am  not  even — I  am  not 
even —  And  she  paused  a  moment. 

"You  are  not  what?" 

"  I  am  not  even  brave." 


74  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

"Ah,  then, if  you  are  afraid,  what  shall  we  do?" 
She  hesitated  awhile;  then  at  last — "You  must 
come  to  the  house,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  not  afraid  of 
that." 

"I  would  rather  it  were  in  the  Square,"  the 
young  man  urged.  "You  know  how  empty  it  is, 
often.  No  one  will  see  us." 

"  I  don't  care  who  sees  us.  But  leave  me  now." 
He  left  her  resignedly ;  he  had  got  what  he  want- 
ed. Fortunately  he  was  ignorant  that  half  an  hour 
later,  going  home  with  her  father,  and  feeling  him 
near,  the  poor  girl,  in  spite  of  her  sudden  declaration 
of  courage,  began  to  tremble  again.  Her  father  said 
nothing;  but  she  had  an  idea  his  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  her  in  the  darkness.  Mrs.  Penniman  also  was 
silent;  Morris  Townsend  had  told  her  that  her  niece 
preferred,  unromantically,  an  interview  in  a  chintz- 
covered  parlor  to  a  sentimental  tryst  beside  a  foun- 
tain sheeted  with  dead  leaves,  and  she  was  lost  in 
wonderment  at  the  oddity — almost  the  perversity — 
of  the  choice. 


X. 

CATHERINE  received  the  young  man  the  next  day 
on  the  ground  she  had  chosen — amidst  the  chaste  up- 
holstery of  a  New  York  drawing-room  furnished  in 
the  fashion  of  fifty  years  ago.  Morris  had  swallow- 
ed his  pride,  and  made  the  effort  necessary  to  cross 
the  threshold  of  her  too  derisive  parent — an  act  of 
magnanimity  which  could  not  fail  to  render  him 
doubly  interesting. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  75 

"We  must  settle  something — we  must  take  a 
line,"  he  declared,  passing  his  hand  through  his  hair 
and  giving  a  glance  at  the  long,  narrow  mirror  which 
adorned  the  space  between  the  two  windows,  and 
which  had  at  its  base  a  little  gilded  bracket  covered 
by  a  thin  slab  of  white  marble,  supporting  in  its  turn 
a  backgammon-board  folded  together  in  the  shape 
of  two  volumes — two  shining  folios  inscribed,  in 
greenish-gilt  letters,  History  of  England.  If  Morris 
had  been  pleased  to  describe  the  master  of  the  house 
as  a  heartless  scoffer,  it  is  because  he  thought  him 
too  much  on  his  guard,  and  this  was  the  easiest  way 
to  express  his  own  dissatisfaction — a  dissatisfaction 
which  he  had  made  a  point  of  concealing  from  the 
Doctor.  It  will  probably  seem  to  the  reader,  how- 
ever, that  the  Doctor's  vigilance  was  by  no  means 
excessive,  and  that  these  two  young  people  had  an 
open  field.  Their  intimacy  was  now  considerable, 
and  it  may  appear  that,  for  a  shrinking  and  retiring 
person,  our  heroine  had  been  liberal  of  her  favors. 
The  young  man,  within  a  few  days,  had  made  her 
listen  to  things  for  which  she  had  not  supposed  that 
she  was  prepared ;  having  a  lively  foreboding  of 
difficulties,  he  proceeded  to  gain  as  much  ground  as 
possible  in  the  present.  He  remembered  that  fort- 
une favors  the  brave,  and  even  if  he  had  forgotten 
it,  Mrs.  Penniman  would  have  remembered  it  for 
him.  Mrs.  Penniman  delighted  of  all  things  in  a 
drama,  and  she  flattered  herself  that  a  drama  would 
now  be  enacted.  Combining  as  she  did  the  zeal  of 
the  prompter  with  the  impatience  of  the  spectator, 
she  had  long  since  done  her  utmost  to  pull  up  the 
curtain.  She,  too,  expected  to  figure  in  the  perform- 


76  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

ance — to  be  the  confidante,  the  Chorus,  to  speak  the 
epilogue.  It  may  even  be  said  that  there  were 
times  when  she  lost  sight  altogether  of  the  modest 
heroine  of  the  play  in  the  contemplation  of  certain 
great  scenes  which  would  naturally  occur  between 
the  hero  and  herself. 

What  Morris  had  told  Catherine  at  last  was  sim- 
ply that  he  loved  her,  or  rather  adored  her.  Virtu- 
ally,  he  had  made  known  as  much  already — his  vis- 
its had  been  a  series  of  eloquent  intimations  of  it. 
But  now  he  had 'affirmed  it  in  lover's  vows,  and,  as  a 
memorable  sign  of  it,  he  had  passed  his  arm  round 
the  girl's  waist  and  taken  a  kiss.  This  happy  certi- 
tude had  come  sooner  than  Catherine  expected,  and 
she  had  regarded  it,  very  naturally,  as  a  priceless 
treasure.  It  may  even  be  doubted  whether  she  had 
ever  definitely  expected  to  possess  it ;  she  had  not 
been  waiting  for  it,  and  she  had  never  said  to  her- 
self that  at  a  given  moment  it  must  come.  As  I 
have  tried  to  explain,  she  was  not  eager  and  exact- 
ing ;  she  took  what  was  given  her  from  day  to  day ; 
and  if  the  delightful  custom  of  her  lover's  visits, 
which  yielded  her  a  happiness  in  which  confidence 
and  timidity  were  strangely  blended,  had  suddenly 
come  to  an  end,  she  would  not  only  not  have  spoken 
of  herself  as  one  of  the  forsaken,  but  she  would  not 
have  thought  of  herself  as  one  of  the  disappointed. 
After  Morris  had  kissed  her,  the  last  time  he  was 
with  her,  as  a  ripe  assurance  of  his  devotion,  she 
begged  him  to  go  away,  to  leave  her  alone,  to  let  her 
think.  Morris  went  away,  taking  another  kiss  first. 
But  Catherine's  meditations  had  lacked  a  certain 
coherence.  She  felt  his  kisses  on  her  lips  and  on 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  77 

her  cheeks  for  a  long  time  afterward ;  the  sensation 
was  rather  an  obstacle  than  an  aid  to  reflection.  She 
would  have  liked  to  see  her  situation  all  clearly  be- 
fore her,  to  make  up  her  mind  what  she  should  do 
if,  as  she  feared,  her  father  should  tell  her  that  he 
disapproved  of  Morris  Townsend.  But  all  that  she 
could  see  with  any  vividness  was  that  it  was  terribly 
strange  that  any  one  should  disapprove  of  him ; 
that  there  must  in  that  case  be  some  mistake,  some 
mystery,  which  in  a  little  while  would  be  set  at  rest. 
She  put  off  deciding  and  choosing;  before  the  vi- 
sion of  a  conflict  with  her  father  she  dropped  her 
eyes  and  sat  motionless,  holding  her  breath  and 
waiting.  It  made  her  heart  beat ;  it  was  intensely 
painful.  When  Morris  kissed  her  and  said  these 
things — that  also  made  her  heart  beat ;  but  this  was 
worse,  and  it  frightened  her.  Nevertheless,  to-day, 
when  the  young  man  spoke  of  settling  something, 
taking  a  line,  she  felt  that  it  was  the  truth,  and  she 
answered  very  simply  and  without  hesitating. 

"We  must  do  our  duty,"  she  said;  "we  must 
speak  to  my  father.  I  will  do  it  to-night ;  you  must 
do  it  to-morrow." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  do  it  first,"  Morris  an- 
swered. "  The  young  man — the  happy  lover — gen- 
erally does  that.  But  just  as  you  please." 

It  pleased  Catherine  to  think  that  she  should  be 
brave  for  his  sake,  and  in  her  satisfaction  she  even 
gave  a  little  smile.  "  Women  have  more  tact,"  she 
said;  "they  ought  to  do  it  first.  They  are  more 
conciliating ;  they  can  persuade  better." 

"You  will  need  all  your  powers  of  persuasion. 
But,  after  all,"  Morris  added,  "  you  are  irresistible." 


78  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  Please  don't  speak  that  way — and  promise  me 
this:  To-morrow,  when  you  talk  with  father,  you 
will  be  very  gentle  and  respectful." 

"  As  much  so  as  possible,"  Morris  promised.  "  It 
won't  be  much  use,  but  I  shall  try.  I  certainly 
would  rather  have  you  easily  than  have  to  fight  for 
you." 

"  Don't  talk  about  fighting  ;  we  shall  not  fight." 

"  Ah,  we  must  be  prepared,"  Morris  rejoined ; 
"  you  especially,  because  for  you  it  must  come  hard- 
est. Do  you  know  the  first  thing  your  father  will 
say  to  you  ?" 

"  No,  Morris ;  please  tell  me." 

"  He  will  tell  you  I  am  mercenary." 

"  Mercenary !" 

"  It's  a  big  word,  but  it  means  a  low  thing.  It 
means  that  I  am  after  your  money." 

"  Oh  !"  murmured  Catherine,  softly. 

The  exclamation  was  so  deprecating  and  touching 
that  Morris  indulged  in  another  little  demonstration 
of  affection.  "But  he  will  be  sure  to  say  it,"  he 
added. 

"  It  will  be  easy  to  be  prepared  for  that,"  Catherine 
said.  "  I  shall  simply  say  that  he  is  mistaken — that 
other  men  may  be  that  way,  but  that  you  are  not." 

"  You  must  make  a  great  point  of  that,  for  it  will 
be  his  own  great  point." 

Catherine  looked  at  her  lover  a  minute,  and  then 
she  said, "  I  shall  persuade  him.  But  I  am  glad  we 
shall  be  rich,"  she  added. 

Morris  turned  away,  looking  into  the  crown  of  his 
hat.  "  No,  it's  a  misfortune,"  he  said  at  last.  "  It 
is  from  that  our  difficulty  will  come." 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  79 

"  "Well,  if  it  is  the  worst  misfortune,  we  are  not  so 
unhappy.  Many  people  would  not  think  it  so  bad. 
I  will  persuade  him,  and  after  that  we  shall  be  very 
glad  we  have  money." 

Morris  Townsend  listened  to  this  robust  logic  in 
silence.  "  I  will  leave  my  defence  to  you ;  it's  a 
charge  that  a  man  has  to  stoop  to  defend  himself 
from.'* 

Catherine  on  her  side  was  silent  for  awhile ;  she 
was  looking  at  him  while  he  looked,  with  a  good 
deal  of  fixedness,  out  of  the  window.  "Morris," 
she  said,  abruptly, " are  you  very  sure  you  love  me?" 

He  turned  round,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  bend- 
ing over  her.  "  My  own  dearest,  can  you  doubt  it  ?" 

"  I  have  only  known  it  five  days,"  she  said ; 
"but  now  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  could  never  do 
without  it." 

"  You  will  never  be  called  upon  to  try."  And  he 
gave  a  little  tender,  reassuring  laugh.  Then,  in  a 
moment,  he  added, "  There  is  something  you  must 
tell  me,  too."  She  had  closed  her  eyes  after  the  last 
words  she  uttered,  and  kept  them  closed;  and  at 
this  she  nodded  her  head,  without  opening  them. 
"  You  must  tell  me,"  he  went  on, "  that  if  your  fa- 
ther is  dead  against  me,  if  he  absolutely  forbids  our 
marriage,  you  will  still  be  faithful." 

Catherine  opened  her  eyes,  gazing  at  him,  and  she 
could  give  no  better  promise  than  what  he  read 
there. 

"You  will  cleave  to  me?"  said  Morris.  "You 
know  you  are  your  own  mistress — you  are  of  age." 

"Ah,  Morris  !"  she  murmured,  for  all  answer  ;  or 
rather  not  for  all,  for  she  put  her  hand  into  his  own. 


80  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

He  kept  it  awhile,  and  presently  he  kissed  her  again. 
This  is  all  that  need  be  recorded  of  their  conversa- 
tion ;  but  Mrs.  Penniman,  if  she  had  been  present, 
would  probably  have  admitted  that  it  was  as  well  it 
had  not  taken  place  beside  the  fountain  in  Washing- 
ton Square. 


XI. 

CATHERINE  listened  for  her  father  when  he  came 
in  that  evening,  and  she  heard  him  go  to  his  study. 
She  sat  quiet,  though  her  heart  was  beating  fast,  for 
nearly  half  an  hour;  then  she  went  and  knocked 
at  his  door — va  ceremony  without  which  she  never 
crossed  the  threshold  of  this  apartment.  On  enter- 
ing it  now,  she  found  him  in  his  chair  beside  the 
fire,  entertaining  himself  with  a  cigar  and  the  even- 
ing paper. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  she  began  very 
gently;  and  she  sat  down  in  the  first  place  that 
offered. 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  hear  it,  my  dear,"  said 
her  father.  He  waited  —  waited,  looking  at  her — 
while  she  stared,  in  a  long  silence,  at  the  fire.  He 
was  curious  and  impatient,  for  he  was  sure  she  was 
going  to  speak  of  Morris  Townsend ;  but  he  let  her 
take  her  own  time,  for  he  was  determined  to  be  very 
mild. 

"  I  am  engaged  to  be  married !"  Catherine  an- 
nounced at  last,  still  staring  at  the  fire. 

The  Doctor  was  startled ;  the  accomplished  fact 
was  more  than  he  had  expected  ;  but  he  betrayed 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  81 

no  surprise.  "  You  do  right  to  tell  me,"  he  simply 
said.  "And  who  is  the  happy  mortal  whom  you 
have  honored  with  your  choice  ?" 

"  Mr.  Morris  Townsend."  And  as  she  pronounced 
her  lover's  name  Catherine  looked  at  him.  What 
she  saw  was  her  father's  still  gray  eye  and  his  clear- 
cut,  definite  smile.  She  contemplated  these  objects 
for  a  moment,  and  then  she  looked  back  at  the  fire ; 
it  was  much  warmer. 

"  When  was  this  arrangement  made  ?"  the  Doctor 
asked. 

"  This  afternoon — two  hours  ago." 

"  Was  Mr.  Townsend  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  father ;  in  the  front-parlor."  She  was  very 
glad  that  she  was  not  obliged  to  tell  him  that  the 
ceremony  of  their  betrothal  had  taken  place  out 
there  under  the  bare  ailantus-trees. 

"  Is  it  serious  ?"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  Yery  serious,  father." 

Her  father  was  silent  a  moment.  "Mr. Towns- 
end  ought  to  have  told  me." 

"  He  means  to  tell  you  to-morrow." 

"  After  I  know  all  about  it  from  you  ?  He 
ought  to  have  told  me  before.  Does  he  think 
I  didn't  care,  because  I  left  you  so  much  lib- 
erty?" 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Catherine  ;  "  he  knew  you  would 
care.  And  we  have  been  so  much  obliged  to  you 
for — for  the  liberty." 

The  Doctor  gave  a  short  laugh.  "You  might 
have  made  a  better  use  of  it,  Catherine." 

"  Please  don't  say  that,  father !"  the  girl  urged, 
softly,  fixing  her  dull  and  gentle  eyes  upon  him. 

6 


82  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

He  puffed  his  cigar  awhile,  meditatively.  "  You 
have  gone  very  fast,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"  Yes,"  Catherine  answered,  simply ;  "  I  think  we 
have." 

Her  father  glanced  at  her  an  instant,  removing  his 
eyes  from  the  h're.  "  I  don't  wonder  Mr.  Townsend 
likes  you ;  you  are  so  simple  and  so  good." 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  is ;  but  he  does  like  me. 
I  am  sure  of  that." 

"  And  are  you  very  fond  of  Mr.  Townsend  ?" 

"  I  like  him  very  much,  of  course,  or  I  shouldn't 
consent  to  marry  him." 

"  But  you  have  known  him  a  very  short  time,  my 
dear." 

"  Oh,"  said  Catherine,  with  some  eagerness,  "  it 
doesn't  take  long  to  like  a  person — when  once  you 
begin." 

"You  must  have  begun  very  quickly.  Was  it 
the  first  time  you  saw  him — that  night  at  your  aunt's 
party?" 

"  I  don't  know,  father,"  the  girl  answered.  "  I 
can't  tell  you  about  that." 

"  Of  course ;  that's  your  own  affair.  You  will 
have  observed  that  I  have  acted  on  that  principle. 
I  have  not  interfered ;  I  have  left  you  your  liberty ; 
I  have  remembered  that  you  are  no  longer  a  little 
girl — that  you  have  arrived  at  years  of  discretion." 

"  I  feel  very  old — and  very  wise,"  said  Catherine, 
smiling  faintly. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  before  long  you  will  feel  older 
and  wiser  yet.  I  don't  like  your  engagement." 

"Ah!"  Catherine  exclaimed,  softly,  getting  up 
from  her  chair. 


WASHINGTON  SQUAKE.  83 

"  No,  my  dear.  I  am  sorry  to  give  you  pain ;  but 
I  don't  like  it.  You  should  have  consulted  me  be- 
fore you  settled  it.  I  have  been  too  easy  with  you, 
and  I  feel  as  if  you  had  taken  advantage  of  my  in- 
dulgence. Most  decidedly  you  should  have  spoken 
to  me  first." 

Catherine  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then — "  It  was 
because  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  like  it,"  she  con- 
fessed. 

"Ah,  there  it  is !     You  had  a  bad  conscience." 

"  No,  I  have  not  a  bad  conscience,  father !"  the 
girl  cried  out,  with  considerable  energy.  "  Please 
don't  accuse  me  of  anything  so  dreadful !"  These 
words,  in  fact,  represented  to  her  imagination  some- 
thing very  terrible  indeed,  something  base  and  cruel, 
which  she  associated  with  malefactors  and  prison- 
ers. "  It  was  because  I  was  afraid — afraid — "  she 
went  on. 

"  If  you  were  afraid,  it  was  because  you  had  been 
foolish." 

"  I  was  afraid  you  didn't  like  Mr.  Townsend." 

"  You  were  quite  right.     I  don't  like  him." 

"  Dear  father,  you  don't  know  him,"  said  Cathe- 
rine, in  a  voice  so  timidly  argumentative  that  it 
might  have  touched  him. 

"  Very  true  ;  I  don't  know  him  intimately.  But 
I  know  him  enough ;  I  have  my  impression  of  him. 
You  don't  know  him  either." 

She  stood  before  the  fire  with  her  hands  lightly 
clasped  in  front  of  her ;  and  her  father,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair  and  looking  up  at  her,  made  this  remark 
with  a  placidity  that  might  have  been  irritating. 

I  doubt,  however,  whether  Catherine  was  irritated, 


84  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

though  she  broke  into  a  vehement  protest.  "  I  don't 
know  him  ?"  she  cried.  "  Why,  I  know  him — better 
than  I  have  ever  known  any  one !" 

"  You  know  a  part  of  him — what  he  has  chosen 
to  show  you.  But  you  don't  know  the  rest." 

"  The  rest  ?     What  is  the  rest  ?" 

"  Whatever  it  may  be,  there  is  sure  to  be  plenty 
of  it." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Catherine,  remem- 
bering how  Morris  had  forewarned  her.  "  You  mean 
that  he  is  mercenary." 

Her  father  looked  up  at  her  still,  with  his  cold, 
quiet,  reasonable  eye.  "  If  I  meant  it,  my  dear,  I 
should  say  it !  But  there  is  an  error  I  wish  partic- 
ularly to  avoid — that  of  rendering  Mr.  Townsend 
more  interesting  to  you  by  saying  hard  things  about 
him." 

"  I  won't  think  them  hard  if  they  are  true,"  said 
Catherine. 

"  If  you  don't,  you  will  be  a  remarkably  sensible 
young  woman !" 

"  They  will  be  your  reasons,  at  any  rate,  and  you 
will  want  me  to  hear  your  reasons." 

The  Doctor  smiled  a  little.  "  Yery  true.  You 
have  a  perfect  right  to  ask  for  them."  And  he  puff- 
ed his  cigar  a  few  moments.  "  Yery  well,  then ; 
without  accusing  Mr.  Townsend  of  being  in  love  only 
with  your  fortune — and  with  the  fortune  that  you 
justly  expect — I  will  say  that  there  is  every  reason  to 
suppose  that  these  good  things  have  entered  into  his 
calculation  more  largely  than  a  tender  solicitude  for 
your  happiness  strictly  requires.  There  is,  of  course, 
nothing  impossible  in  an  intelligent  young  man  en- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  85 

tertaining  a  disinterested  affection  for  you.  You  are 
an  honest,  amiable  girl,  and  an  intelligent  young 
man  might  easily  find  it  out.  But  the  principal 
thing  that  we  know  about  this  young  man — who  is, 
indeed,  very  intelligent — leads  us  to  suppose  that, 
however  much  he  may  value  your  personal  merits, 
he  values  your  money  more.  The  principal  thing 
we  know  about  him  is  that  he  has  led  a  life  of  dis- 
sipation, and  has  spent  a  fortune  of  his  own  in  doing 
so.  That  is  enough  for  me,  my  dear.  I  wish  you 
to  marry  a  young  man  with  other  antecedents — a 
young  man  who  could  give  positive  guarantees.  If 
Morris  Townsend  has  spent  his  own  fortune  in 
amusing  himself,  there  is  every  reason  to  believe 
that  he  would  spend  yours." 

The  Doctor  delivered  himself  of  these  remarks 
slowly,  deliberately,  with  occasional  pauses  and  pro- 
longations of  accent,  which  made  no  great  allowance 
for  poor  Catherine's  suspense  as  to  his  conclusion. 
She  sat  down  at  last,  with  her  head  bent  and  her 
eyes  still  fixed  upon  him ;  and  strangely  enough — I 
hardly  know  how  to  tell  it — even  while  she  felt  that 
what  he  said  went  so  terribly  against  her,  she  ad- 
mired his  neatness  and  nobleness  of  expression. 
There  was  something  hopeless  and  oppressive  in  hav- 
ing to  argue  with  her  father ;  but  she  too,  on  her 
side,  must  try  to  be  clear.  He  was  so  quiet ;  he  was 
not  at  all  angry ;  and  she,  too,  must  be  quiet.  But 
her  very  effort  to  be  quiet  made  her  tremble. 

"  That  is  not  the  principal  thing  we  know  about 
him,"  she  said ;  and  there  was  a  touch  of  her  tremor 
in  her  voice.  "  There  are  other  things — many  other 
things.  He  has  very  high  abilities — he  wants  so 


86  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

much  to  do  something.  He  is  kind,  and  generous, 
and  true,"  said  poor  Catherine,  who  had  not  suspect- 
ed hitherto  the  resources  of  her  eloquence.  "  And 
his  fortune — his  fortune  that  he  spent — was  very 
small." 

"  All  the  more  reason  he  shouldn't  have  spent  it," 
cried  the  Doctor,  getting  up  with  a  laugh.  Then,  as 
Catherine,  who  had  also  risen  to  her  feet  again,  stood 
there  in  her  rather  angular  earnestness,  wishing  so 
much  and  expressing  so  little,  he  drew  her  toward 
him  and  kissed  her.  "  You  won't  think  me  cruel  ?" 
he  said,  holding  her  a  moment. 

This  question  was  not  reassuring;  it  seemed  to 
Catherine,  on  the  contrary,  to  suggest  possibilities 
which  made  her  feel  sick.  But  she  answered  co- 
herently enough,  "  No,  dear  father ;  because  if  you 
knew  how  I  feel — and  you  must  know,  you  know 
everything — you  would  be  so  kind,  so  gentle." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  know  how  you  feel,"  the  Doctor 
said.  "  I  will  be  very  kind — be  sure  of  that.  And 
I  will  see  Mr.  Townsend  to-morrow.  Meanwhile, 
and  for  the  present,  be  so  good  as  to  mention  to  no 
one  that  you  are  engaged." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  87 


XII. 

ON  the  morrow,  in  the  afternoon,  he  stayed  at 
home,  awaiting  Mr.  Townsend's  call — a  proceeding 
by  which  it  appeared  to  him  (justly  perhaps,  for  he 
was  a  very  busy  man)  that  he  paid  Catherine's  suitor 
great  honor,  and  gave  both  these  young  people  so 
much  the  less  to  complain  of.  Morris  presented 
himself  with  a  countenance  sufficiently  serene — he 
appeared  to  have  forgotten  the  "insult"  for  which 
he  had  solicited  Catherine's  sympathy  two  evenings 
before — and  Doctor  Sloper  lost  no  time  in  letting 
him  know  that  he  had  been  prepared  for  his  visit. 

"  Catherine  told  me  yesterday  what  has  been  go- 
ing on  between  you,"  he  said.  "  You  must  allow 
me  to  say  that  it  would  have  been  becoming  of  you 
to  give  me  notice  of  your  intentions  before  they  had 
gone  so  far." 

"I  should  have  done  so,"  Morris  answered,  "if 
you  had  not  had  so  much  the  appearance  of  leaving 
your  daughter  at  liberty.  She  seems  to  me  quite 
her  own  mistress." 

"Literally,  she  is.  But  she  has  not  emancipated 
herself  morally  quite  so  far,  I  trust,  as  to  choose  a 
husband  without  consulting  me.  I  have  left  her  at 
liberty,  but  I  have  not  been  in  the  least  indifferent. 
The  truth  is,  that  your  little  affair  has  come  to  a  head 
with  a  rapidity  that  surprises  me.  It  was  only  the 
other  day  that  Catherine  made  your  acquaintance," 


88  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  It  was  not  long  ago,  certainly,"  said  Morris,  with 
great  gravity.  "  I  admit  that  we  have  not  been  slow 
to — to  arrive  at  an  understanding.  But  that  was  very 
natural,  from  the  moment  we  were  sure  of  ourselves 
— and  of  each  other.  My  interest  in  Miss  Sloper 
began  the  first  time  I  saw  her." 

"Did  it  not  by  chance  precede  your  first  meet- 
ing ?"  the  Doctor  asked. 

Morris  looked  at  him  an  instant.  "I  certainly 
had  already  heard  that  she  was  a  charming  girl." 

"A  charming  girl — that's  what  you  think  her?" 

"Assuredly.  Otherwise  I  should  not  be  sitting 
here." 

The  Doctor  meditated  a  moment.  "My  dear 
young  man,"  he  said  at  last,  "  you  must  be  very 
susceptible.  As  Catherine's  father  I  have,  I  trust, 
a  just  and  tender  appreciation  of  her  many  good 
qualities ;  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I  have 
never  thought  of  her  as  a  charming  girl,  and  never 
expected  any  one  else  to  do  so." 

Morris  Townsend  received  this  statement  with  a 
smile  that  was  not  wholly  devoid  of  deference.  "  I 
don't  know  what  I  might  think  of  her  if  I  were  her 
father.  I  can't  put  myself  in  that  place.  I  speak 
from  my  own  point  of  view." 

"  You  speak  very  well,"  said  the  Doctor ;  "  but 
that  is  not  all  that  is  necessary.  I  told  Catherine 
yesterday  that  I  disapproved  of  her  engagement." 

"  She  let  me  know  as  much,  and  I  was  very  sorry 
to  hear  it.  I  am  greatly  disappointed."  And  Mor- 
ris sat  in  silence  awhile,  looking  at  the  floor. 

"Did  you  really  expect  I  would  say  I  was  de- 
lighted, and  throw  my  daughter  into  your  arms  ?" 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  89 

"  Oh  no ;  I  had  an  idea  you  didn't  like  me." 

"  What  gave  you  the  idea  ?" 

"  The  fact  that  I  am  poor." 

"  That  has  a  harsh  sound,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  but 
it  is  about  the  truth — speaking  of  you  strictly  as  a 
son-in-law.  Your  absence  of  means,  of  a  profession, 
of  visible  resources  or  prospects,  places  you  in  a 
category  from  which  it  would  be  imprudent  for  me 
to  select  a  husband  for  my  daughter,  who  is  a  weak 
young  woman  with  a  large  fortune.  In  any  other 
capacity  I  am  perfectly  prepared  to  like  you.  As 
a  son-in-law,  I  abominate  you." 

Morris  Townsend  listened  respectfully.  "  I  don't 
think  Miss  Sloper  is  a  weak  woman,"  he  presently 


"  Of  course  you  must  defend  her — it's  the  least 
you  can  do.  But  I  have  known  my  child  twenty 
years,  and  you  have  known  her  six  weeks.  Even 
if  she  were  not  weak,  however,  you  would  still  be 
a  penniless  man." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  that  is  my  weakness !  And  therefore, 
you  mean,  I  am  mercenary  —  I  only  want  your 
daughter's  money." 

"  I  don't  say  that.  I  am  not  obliged  to  say  it ;  and 
to  say  it,  save  under  stress  of  compulsion,  would  be 
very  bad  taste.  I  say  simply  that  you  belong  to  the 
wrong  category." 

"But  your  daughter  doesn't  marry  a  category," 
Townsend  urged,  with  his  handsome  smile.  "  She 
marries  an  individual — an  individual  whom  she  is 
so  good  as  to  say  she  loves." 

"An  individual  .who  offers  so  little  in  return." 

"  Is  it  possible  to  offer  more  than  the  most  tender 


90  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

affection  and  a  life-long  devotion  3"  the  young  man 
demanded. 

"It  depends  how  we  take  it.  It  is  possible  to 
offer  a  few  other  things  besides,  and  not  only  is  it 
possible,  but  it  is  the  custom.  A  life-long  devotion 
is  measured  after  the  fact;  and  meanwhile  it  is 
usual  in  these  cases  to  give  a  few  material  securi- 
ties. What  are  yours  ?  A  very  handsome  face 
and  figure,  and  a  very  good  manner.  They  are  ex- 
cellent as  far  as  they  go,  but  they  don't  go  far 
enough." 

"There  is  one  thing  you  should  add  to  them," 
said  Morris — "  the  word  of  a  gentleman." 

"  The  word  of  a  gentleman  that  you  will  always 
love  Catherine  ?  You  must  be  a  fine  gentleman  to 
be  sure  of  that." 

"  The  word  of  a  gentleman  that  I  am  not  merce- 
nary ;  that  my  affection  for  Miss  Sloper  is  as  pure 
and  disinterested  a  sentiment  as  was  ever  lodged  in 
a  human  breast.  I  care  no  more  for  her  fortune 
than  for  the  ashes  in  that  grate." 

"I  take  note  —  I  take  note,"  said  the  Doctor. 
"But,  having  done  so, I  turn  to  our  category  again. 
Even  with  that  solemn  vow  on  your  lips,  you  take 
your  place  in  it.  There  is  nothing  against  you  but 
an  accident,  if  you  will ;  but,  with  my  thirty  years' 
medical  practice,  I  have  seen  that  accidents  may 
have  far-reaching  consequences." 

Morris  smoothed  his  hat — it  was  already  remark- 
ably glossy — and  continued  to  display  a  self-control 
which,  as  the  Doctor  was  obliged  to  admit,  was  ex- 
tremely creditable  to  him.  But  his  disappointment 
was  evidently  keen. 


WASHINGTON   SQUAEE.  91 

"Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  to  make  you  believe 
in  me?" 

"  If  there  were,  I  should  be  sorry  to  suggest  it,  for 
— don't  you  see? — I  don't  want  to  believe  in  you," 
said  the  Doctor,  smiling. 

"  I  would  go  and  dig  in  the  fields." 

"  That  would  be  foolish." 

"  I  will  take  the  first  work  that  offers  to-morrow." 

"  Do  so  by  all  means — but  for  your  own  sake,  not 
for  mine." 

"I  see;  you  think  I  am  an  idler!"  Morris  ex- 
claimed, a  little  too  much  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who 
has  made  a  discovery.  But  he  saw  his  error  im- 
mediately, and  blushed. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  what  I  think,  when  once  I  have 
told  you  I  don't  think  of  you  as  a  son-in-law." 

But  Morris  persisted :  "  You  think  I  would  squan- 
der her  money  ?" 

The  Doctor  smiled.  "  It  doesn't  matter,  as  I  say  ; 
but  I  plead  guilty  to  that." 

"  That's  because  I  spent  my  own,  I  suppose,"  said 
Morris.  "  I  frankly  confess  that.  I  have  been  wild  ; 
I  have  been  foolish.  I  will  tell  you  every  crazy 
thing  I  ever  did,  if  you  like.  There  were  some 
great  follies  among  the  number — I  have  never  con- 
cealed that.  But  I  have  sown  my  wild-oats.  Isn't 
there  some  proverb  about  a  reformed  rake  ?  I  was 
not  a  rake,  but  I  assure  you  I  have  reformed.  It  is 
better  to  have  amused  one's  self  for  awhile  and  have 
done  with  it.  Your  daughter  would  never  care  for 
a  milksop  ;  and  I  will  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that 
you  would  like  one  quite  as  little.  Besides,  between 
my  money  and  hers  there  is  a  great  difference.  I 


92  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

spent  my  own ;  it  was  because  it  was  my  own  that  I 
spent  it.  And  I  made  no  debts ;  when  it  was  gone 
I  stopped.  I  don't  owe  a  penny  in  the  world." 

"Allow  me  to  inquire  what  you  are  living  on 
now — though  I  admit,"  the  Doctor  added,  "  that  the 
question,  on- my  part,  is  inconsistent." 

"  I  am  living  on  the  remnants  of  my  property," 
said  Morris  Townsend. 

"  Thank  you,"  the  Doctor  gravely  replied. 

Yes,  certainly,  Morris's  self-control  was  laudable. 
"Even  admitting  I  attach  an  undue  importance  to 
Miss  Sloper's  fortune,"  he  went  on,  "  would  not  that 
be  in  itself  an  assurance  that  I  would  take  good  care 
of  it?" 

"  That  you  should  take  too  much  care  would  be 
quite  as  bad  as  that  you  should  take  too  little.  Cath- 
erine might  suffer  as  much  by  your  economy  as  by 
your  extravagance." 

"  I  think  you  are  very  unjust !"  The  young  man 
made  this  declaration  decently,  civilly,  without  vio- 
lence. 

"  It  is  your  privilege  to  think  so,  and  I  surrender 
my  reputation  to  you !  I  certainly  don't  flatter  my- 
self, I  gratify  you." 

"Don't  you  care  a  little  to  gratify  your  daugh- 
ter? Do  you  enjoy  the  idea  of  making  her  miser- 
able?" 

"I  am  perfectly  resigned  to  her  thinking  me  a 
tyrant  for  a  twelvemonth." 

"  For  a  twelvemonth  !"  exclaimed  Morris,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  For  a  lifetime,  then.  She  may  as  well  be  miser- 
able in  that  way  as  in  the  other." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  93 

Here  at  last  Morris  lost  his  temper.  "  Ah,  you 
are  not  polite,  sir !"  he  cried. 

"  You  push  me  to  it — you  argue  too  much." 

"  I  have  a  great  deal  at  stake." 

"  Well,  whatever  it  is,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  you  have 
lost  it." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?"  asked  Morris ;  "  are  you 
sure  your  daughter  will  give  me  up  ?" 

"  I  mean,  of  course,  you  have  lost  it  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned.  As  for  Catherine's  giving  you  up — no,  I 
am  not  sure  of  it.  But  as  I  shall  strongly  recommend 
it,  as  I  have  a  great  fund  of  respect  and  affection  in 
my  daughter's  mind  to  draw  upon,  and  as  she  has 
the  sentiment  of  duty  developed  in  a  very  high  de- 
gree, I  think  it  extremely  possible." 

Morris  Townsend  began  to  smooth  his  hat  again. 
"  I,  too,  have  a  fund  of  affection  to  draw  upon,"  he 
observed,  at  last. 

The  Doctor  at  this  point  showed  his  own  first 
symptoms  of  irritation.  "Do  you  mean  to  defy 
me?" 

"  Call  it  what  you  please,  sir.  I  mean  not  to  give 
your  daughter  up." 

The  Doctor  shook  his  head.  "  I  haven't  the  least 
fear  of  your  pining  away  your  life.  You  are  made 
to  enjoy  it." 

Morris  gave  a  laugh.  "  Your  opposition  to  my 
marriage  is  all  the  more  cruel,  then.  Do  you  intend 
to  forbid  your  daughter  to  see  me  again  ?" 

"  She  is  past  the  age  at  which  people  are  forbid- 
den, and  I  am  not  a  father  in  an  old-fashioned  novel. 
But  I  shall  strongly  urge  her  to  break  with  you." 

"  I  don't  think  she  will,"  said  Morris  Townsend. 


94:  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"Perhaps  not;  but  I  shall  have  done  what  I 
could." 

"  She  has  gone  too  far — "  Morris  went  on. 

"  To  retreat  ?     Then  let  her  stop  where  she  is." 

"  Too  far  to  stop,  I  mean." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  him  a  moment ;  Morris  had 
his  hand  on  the  door.  "  There  is  a  great  deal  of  im- 
pertinence in  your  saying  it." 

"  I  will  say  no  more,  sir,"  Morris  answered ;  and, 
making  his  bow,  he  left  the  room. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 


95 


XIII. 


IT  may  be  thought  the  Doctor  was  too  positive, 
and  Mrs.  Almond  intimated  as  much.  But,  as  he 
said,  he  had  his  impression ;  it  seemed  to  him  suffi- 
cient, and  he  had  no  wish  to  modify  it.  He  had 
passed  his  life  in  estimating  people  (it  was  part  of 
the  medical  trade),  and  in  nineteen  cases  out  of 
twenty  he  was  right. 


96  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Townsend  is  the  twentieth  case," 
said  Mrs.  Almond. 

"  Perhaps  he  is,  though  he  doesn't  look  to  me  at 
all  like  a  twentieth  case.  But  I  will  give  him  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt,  and,  to  make  sure,  I  will  go  and 
talk  with  Mrs.  Montgomery.  She  will  almost  cer- 
tainly tell  me  I  have  done  right ;  but  it  is  just  pos- 
sible that  she  will  prove  to  me  that  I  have  made  the 
greatest  mistake  of  my  life.  If  she  does,  I  will  beg 
Mr.  Townsend's  pardon.  You  needn't  invite  her  to 
meet  me,  as  you  kindly  proposed  ;  I  will  write  her  a 
frank  letter,  telling  her  how  matters  stand,  and  ask- 
ing leave  to  come  and  see  her." 

"  I  am  afraid  the  frankness  will  be  chiefly  on  your 
side.  The  poor  little  woman  will  stand  up  for  her 
brother,  whatever  he  may  be." 

"  Whatever  he  may  be !  I  doubt  that.  People 
are  not  always  so  fond  of  their  brothers." 

"  Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Almond,  "  when  it's  a  question  of 
thirty  thousand  a  year  coming  into  a  family— 

"  If  she  stands  up  for  him  on  account  of  the  mon- 
ey, she  will  be  a  humbug.  If  she  is  a  humbug,  I 
shall  see  it.  If  I  see  it,  I  won't  waste  time  with 
her." 

"She  is  not  a  humbug  —  she  is  an  exemplary 
woman.  She  will  not  wish  to  play  her  brother  a 
trick  simply  because  he  is  selfish." 

"  If  she  is  worth  talking  to,  she  will  sooner  play 
him  a  trick  than  that  he  should  play  Catherine  one. 
Has  she  seen  Catherine,  by-the-way — does  she  know 
her?" 

"  Not  to  my  knowledge.  Mr.  Townsend  can  have 
had  no  particular  interest  in  bringing  them  together." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  97 

"  If  she  is  an  exemplary  woman,  no.  But  we  shall 
see  to  what  extent  she  answers  your  description." 

"  I  shall  be  curious  to  hear  her  description  of 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Almond,  with  a  laugh.  "And, 
meanwhile,  how  is  Catherine  taking  it  ?" 

"  As  she  takes  everything — as  a  matter  of  course." 

"  Doesn't  she  make  a  noise  ?  Hasn't  she  made  a 
scene «" 

"  She  is  not  scenic." 

"  I  thought  a  lovelorn  maiden  was  always  scenic." 

"A  ridiculous  widow  is  more  so.  Lavinia  has 
made  me  a  speech ;  she  thinks  me  very  arbitrary." 

"  She  has  a  talent  for  being  in  the  wrong,"  said 
Mrs.  Almond.  "  But  I  am  very  sorry  for  Catherine, 
all  the  same." 

"  So  am  I.     But  she  will  get  over  it." 

"  You  believe  she  will  give  him  up  ?" 

"  I  count  upon  it.  She  has  such  an  admiration 
for  her  father." 

"  Oh,  we  know  all  about  that.  But  it  only  makes 
me  pity  her  the  more.  It  makes  her  dilemma  the 
more  painful,  and  the  effort  of  choosing  between 
you  and  her  lover  almost  impossible." 

"  If  she  can't  choose,  all  the  better." 

"  Yes ;  but  he  will  stand  there  entreating  her  to 
choose,  and  Lavinia  will  pull  on  that  side." 

"  I  am  glad  she  is  not  on  my  side ;  she  is  capable 
of  ruining  an  excellent  cause.  The  day  Lavinia 
gets  into  your  boat  it  capsizes.  But  she  had  better 
be  careful,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  I  will  have  no  trea- 
son in  my  house." 

"  I  suspect  she  will  be  careful ;  for  she  is  at  bot- 
tom very  much  afraid  of  you." 

7 


98  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

"  They  are  both  afraid  of  me,  harmless  as  I  am," 
the  Doctor  answered.  "And  it  is  on  that  that  I 
build — on  the  salutary  terror  I  inspire." 


XIV. 

HE  wrote  his  frank  letter  to  Mrs.  Montgomery, 
who  punctually  answered  it,  mentioning  an  hour  at 
which  he  might  present  himself  in  the  Second  Ave- 
nue. She  lived  in  a  neat  little  house  of  red  brick, 
which  had  been  freshly  painted,  with  the  edges  of 
the  bricks  very  sharply  marked  out  in  white.  It 
has  now  disappeared,  with  its  companions,  to  make 
room  for  a  row  of  structures  more  majestic.  There 
were  green  shutters  upon  the  windows  without  slats, 
but  pierced  with  little  holes,  arranged  in  groups ; 
and  before  the  house  was  a  diminutive  "yard,"  or- 
namented  with  a  bush  of  mysterious  character,  and 
surrounded  by  a  low  wooden  paling,  painted  in  the 
same  green  as  the  shutters.  The  place  looked  like 
a  magnified  baby-house,  and  might  have  been  taken 
down  from  a  shelf  in  a  toy-shop.  Doctor  Sloper, 
when  he  went  to  call,  said  to  himself,  as  he  glanced 
at  the  objects  I  have  enumerated,  that  Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery was  evidently  a  thrifty  and  self-respecting 
little  person — the  modest  proportions  of  her  dwell- 
ing seemed  to  indicate  that  she  was  of  small  stature 
— who  took  a  virtuous  satisfaction  in  keeping  her- 
self tidy,  and  had  resolved  that,  since  she  might  not 
be  splendid,  she  would  at  least  be  immaculate.  She 
received  him  in  a  little  parlor,  which  was  precisely 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  99 

the  parlor  he  had  expected  :  a  small  unspeckled 
bower,  ornamented  with  a  desultory  foliage  of  tissue- 
paper,  and  with  clusters  of  glass  drops,  amidst  which 
— to  carry  out  the  analogy — the  temperature  of  the 
leafy  season  was  maintained  by  means  of  a  cast-iron 
stove,  emitting  a  dry  blue  flame,  and  smelling  strong- 
ly of  varnish.  The  walls  were  embellished  with  en- 
gravings swathed  in  pink  gauze,  and  the  tables  orna- 
mented with  volumes  of  extracts  from  the  poets, 
usually  bound  in  black  cloth  stamped  with  florid  de- 
signs in  jaundiced  gilt.  The  Doctor  had  time  to 
take  cognizance  of  these  details ;  for  Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery, whose  conduct  he  pronounced  under  the 
circumstances  inexcusable,  kept  him,  waiting  some 
ten  minutes  before  she  appeared.  At  last,  however, 
she  rustled  in,  smoothing  down  a  stiff  poplin  dress, 
with  a  little  frightened  flush  in  a  gracefully  rounded 
cheek. 

She  was  a  small,  plump,  fair  woman,  with  a  bright, 
clear  eye,  and  an  extraordinary  air  of  neatness  and 
briskness.  But  these  qualities  were  evidently  com- 
bined with  an  unaffected  humility,  and  the  Doctor 
gave  her  his  esteem  as  soon  as  he  had  looked  at  her. 
A  brave  little  person,  with  lively  perceptions,  and 
yet  a  disbelief  in  her  own  talent  for  social,  as  distin- 
guished from  practical,  affairs — this  was  his  rapid 
mental  resume  of  Mrs.  Montgomery ;  who,  as  he  saw, 
was  flattered  by  what  she  regarded  as  the  honor  of 
his  visit.  Mrs.  Montgomery,  in  her  little  red  house 
in  the  Second  Avenue,  was  a  person  for  whom  Dr. 
Sloper  was  one  of  the  great  men — one  of  the  fine 
gentlemen  of  New  York  ;  and  while  she  fixed  her 
agitated  eyes  upon  him,  while  she  clasped  her  mit- 


100  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

tened  hands  together  in  her  glossy  poplin  lap,  she 
had  the  appearance  of  saying  to  herself  that  he  quite 
answered  her  idea  of  what  a  distinguished  guest 
would  naturally  be.  She  apologized  for  being  late ; 
but  he  interrupted  her. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said;  "for  while  I  sat 
here  I  had  time  to  think  over  what  I  wish  to  say  to 
you,  and  to  make  up  my  mind  how  to  begin." 

"  Oh,  do  begin  !"  murmured  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

"  It  is  not  so  easy,"  said  the  Doctor,  smiling. 
"  You  will  have  gathered  from  my  letter  that  I  wish 
to  ask  you  a  few  questions,  and  you  may  not  find  it 
very  comfortable  to  answer  them." 

"  Yes ;  I  have  thought  what  I  should  say.  It  is 
not  very  easy." 

"But  you  must  understand  my  situation — my 
state  of  mind.  Your  brother  wishes  to  marry  my 
daughter,  and  I  wish  to  find  out  what  sort  of  a  young 
man  he  is.  A  good  way  to  do  so  seemed  to  be  to 
come  and  ask  you,  which  I  have  proceeded  to  do." 

Mrs.  Montgomery  evidently  took  the  situation 
very  seriously ;  she  was  in  a  state  of  extreme  moral 
concentration.  She  kept  her  pretty  eyes,  which 
were  illumined  by  a  sort  of  brilliant  modesty,  at- 
tached to  his  own  countenance,  and  evidently  paid 
the  most  earnest  attention  to  each  of  his  words. 
Her  expression  indicated  that  she  thought  his  idea 
of  coming  to  see  her  a  very  superior  conception, 
but  that  she  was  really  afraid  to  have  opinions  on 
strange  subjects. 

"  I  am  extremely  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  in  a 
tone  which  seemed  to  admit,  at  the  same  time,  that 
this  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  question. 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  101 

The  Doctor  took  advantage  of  this  admission. 
"I  didn't  come  to  see  you  for  your  pleasure;  I 
came  to  make  you  say  disagreeable  things — and  you 
can't  like  that.  What  sort  of  a  gentleman  is  your 
brother  ?" 

Mrs.  Montgomery's  illuminated  gaze  grew  vague, 
and  began  to  wander.  She  smiled  a  little,  and  for. 
some  time  made  no  answer,  so  that  the  Doctor  at 
last  became  impatient.  And  her  answer,  when  it 
came,  was  not  satisfactory.  "  It  is  difficult  to  talk 
about  one's  brother." 

"  Not  when  one  is  fond  of  him,  and  when  one  has 
plenty  of  good  to  say." 

"  Yes,  even  then,  when  a  good  deal  depends  on 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

"  Nothing  depends  on  it  for  you." 

"  I  mean  for — for — "  and  she  hesitated. 

"  For  your  brother  himself.     I  see." 

"  I  mean  for  Miss  Sloper,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

The  Doctor  liked  this ;  it  had  the  accent  of  sin- 
cerity. "Exactly;  that's  the  point.  If  my  poor 
girl  should  marry  your  brother,  everything — as  re- 
gards her  happiness — would  depend  on  his  being  a 
good  fellow.  She  is  the  best  creature  in  the  world, 
arid  she  could  never  do  him  a  grain  of  injury.  He, 
on  the  other  hand,  if  he  should  not  be  all  that  we 
desire,  might  make  her  very  miserable.  That  is 
why  I  want  you  to  throw  some  light  upon  his  char- 
acter, you  know.  Of  course,  you  are  not  bound  to 
do  it.  My  daughter,  whom  you  have  never  seen,  is 
nothing  to  you  ;  and  I,  possibly,  am  only  an  indis- 
creet and  impertinent  old  man.  It  is  perfectly  open 
to  you  to  tell  me  that  my  visit  is  in  very  bad  taste, 


102  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

and  that  I  had  better  go  about  my  business.  But  I 
don't  think  you  will  do  this;  because  I  think  we 
shall  interest  you — my  poor  girl  and  I.  I  am  sure 
that  if  you  were  to  see  Catherine  she  would  interest 
you  very  much.  I  don't  mean  because  she  is  inter- 
esting in  the  usual  sense  of  the  word,  but  because 
you  would  feel  sorry  for  her.  She  is  so  soft,  so  sim- 
ple-minded, she  would  be  such  an  easy  victim !  A 
bad  husband  would  have  remarkable  facilities  for 
making  her  miserable ;  for  she  would  have  neither 
the  intelligence  nor  the  resolution  to  get  the  better 
of  him,  and  yet  she  would  have  an  exaggerated 
power  of  suffering.  I  see,"  added  the  Doctor,  with 
his  most  insinuating,  his  most  professional  laugh, 
"  you  are  already  interested." 

"  I  have  been  interested  from  the  moment  he  told 
me  he  was  engaged,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

"  Ah  !  he  says  that — he  calls  it  an  engagement  ?" 
"  Oh,  he  has  told  me  you  didn't  like  it." 
"  Did  he  tell  you  that  I  don't  like  Mm  ?" 
"  Yes,  he  told  me  that  too.     I  said  I  couldn't  help 
it,"  added  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

"  Of  course  you  can't.  But  what  you  can  do  is 
to  tell  me  I  am  right — to  give  me  an  attestation,  as 
it  were."  And  the  Doctor  accompanied  this  remark 
with  another  professional  smile. 

Mrs.  Montgomery,  however,  smiled  not  at  all ;  it 
was  obvious  that  she  could  not  take  the  humorous 
view  of  his  appeal.  "  That  is  a  good  deal  to  ask," 
she  said,  at  last. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  that ;  and  I  must,  in 
conscience,  remind  you  of  the  advantages  a  young 
man  marrying  my  daughter  would  enjoy.  She  has 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  103 

an  income  of  ten  thousand  dollars  in  her  own  right, 
left  her  by  her  mother ;  if  she  marries  a  husband  I 
approve,  she  will  come  into  almost  twice  as  much 
more  at  my  death." 

Mrs.  Montgomery  listened  in  great  earnestness  to 
this  splendid  financial  statement ;  she  had  never 
heard  thousands  of  dollars  so  familiarly  talked  about. 
She  flushed  a  little  with  excitement.  "  Your  daugh- 
ter will  be  immensely  rich,"  she  said,  softly. 

"  Precisely— that's  the  bother  of  it." 

"And  if  Morris  should  marry  her,  he — he — " 
And  she  hesitated,  timidly. 

"  He  would  be  master  of  all  that  money  ?  By  no 
means.  He  would  be  master  of  the  ten  thousand 
a  year  that  she  has  from  her  mother;  but  I  should 
leave  every  penny  of  my  own  fortune,  earned  in  the 
laborious  exercise  of  my  profession,  to  my  nephews 
and  nieces." 

Mrs.  Montgomery  dropped  her  eyes  at  this,  and 
sat  for  some  time  gazing  at  the  straw  matting  which 
covered  her  floor. 

"  I  suppose  it  seems  to  you,"  said  the  Doctor, 
laughing, "  that  in  so  doing  I  should  play  your 
brother  a  very  shabby  trick." 

"Not  at  all.  That  is  too  much  money  to  get 
possession  of  so  easily  by  marrying.  I  don't  think 
it  would  be  right." 

"It's  right  to  get  all  one  can.  But  in  this  case 
your  brother  wouldn't  be  able.  If  Catherine  mar- 
ries without  my  consent,  she  doesn't  get  a  penny 
from  my  own  pocket." 

"  Is  that  certain  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Montgomery,  look- 
ing up. 


104  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

-\ 

"  As  certain  as  that  I  sit  here." 

"  Even  if  she  should  pine  away  ?" 

"  Even  if  she  should  pine  to  a  shadow,  which  isn't 
probable." 

"  Does  Morris  know  this  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  inform  him,"  the  Doc- 
tor exclaimed. 

Mrs.  Montgomery  resumed  her  meditations ;  and 
her  visitor,  who  was  prepared  to  give  time  to  the 
affair,  asked  himself  whether,  in  spite  of  her  little 
conscientious  air,  she  was  not  playing  into  her  broth- 
er's hands.  At  the  same  time  he  was  half  ashamed 
of  the  ordeal  to  which  he  had  subjected  her,  and 
was  touched  by  the  gentleness  with  which  she  bore 
it.  "  If  she  were  a  humbug,"  he  said,  "  she  would 
get  angry,  unless  she  be  very  deep  indeed.  It  is 
not  probable  that  she  is  as  deep  as  that." 

"  What  makes  you  dislike  Morris  so  much  ?"  she 
presently  asked,  emerging  from  her  reflections. 

"  I  don't  dislike  him  in  the  least  as  a  friend,  as  a 
companion.  He  seems  to  me  a  charming  fellow, 
and  I  should  think  he  would  be  excellent  company. 
I  dislike  him  exclusively  as  a  son-in-law.  If  the 
only  office  of  a  son-in-law  were  to  dine  at  the  paternal 
table,  I  should  set  a  high  value  upon  your  brother : 
he  dines  capitally.  But  that  is  a  small  part  of  his 
function,  which,  in  general,  is  to  be  a  protector  and 
care-taker  of  my  child,  who  is  singularly  ill-adapted 
to  take  care  of  herself.  It  is  there  that  he  doesn't 
satisfy  me.  I  confess  I  have  nothing  but  my  im- 
pression to  go  by ;  but  I  am  in  the  habit  of  trusting 
my  impression.  Of  course  you  are  at  liberty  to  con- 
tradict it  flat.  He  strikes  me  as  selfish  and  shallow." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  105 

Mrs.  Montgomery's  eyes  expanded  a  little,  and 
the  Doctor  fancied  he  saw  the  light  of  admiration 
in  them.  "I  wonder  you  have  discovered  he  is 
selfish,"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Do  you  think  he  hides  it  so  well  ?" 

"  Yery  well  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery.  "  And 
I  think  we  are  all  rather  selfish,"  she  added,  quickly. 

"  I  think  so  too ;  but  I  have  seen  people  hide  it 
better  than  he.  You  see  I  am  helped  by  a  habit  I 
have  of  dividing  people  into  classes,  into  types.  I 
may  easily  be  mistaken  about  your  brother  as  an 
individual,  but  his  type  is  written  on  his  whole 
person." 

"  He  is  very  good-looking,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

The  Doctor  eyed  her  a  moment.  "  You  women 
are  all  the  same !  But  the  type  to  which  your 
brother  belongs  was  made  to  be  the  ruin  of  you,  and 
you  were  made  to  be  its  handmaids  and  victims. 
The  sign  of  the  type  in  question  is  the  determina- 
tion— sometimes  terrible  in  its  quiet  intensity — to 
accept  nothing  of  life  but  its  pleasures,  and  to  secure 
these  pleasures  chiefly  by  the  aid  of  your  complaisant 
sex.  Young  men  of  this  class  never  do  anything 
for  themselves  that  they  can  get  other  people  to  do 
for  them,  and  it  is  the  infatuation,  the  devotion,  the 
superstition  of  others  that  keeps  them  going.  These 
others,  in  ninety -nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred,  are 
women.  What  our  young  friends  chiefly  insist 
upon  is  that  some  one  else  shall  suffer  for  them ; 
and  women  do  that  sort  of  thing,  as  you  must  know, 
wonderfully  well."  The  Doctor  paused  a  moment, 
and  then  he  added,  abruptly,  "  You  have  suffered 
immensely  for  your  brother  !" 


106  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

This  exclamation  was  abrupt,  as  I  say,  but  it  was 
also  perfectly  calculated.  The  Doctor  had  been 
rather  disappointed  at  not  finding  his  compact  and 
comfortable  little  hostess  surrounded  in  a  more  visi- 
ble degree  by  the  ravages  of  Morris  Townsend's  im- 
morality ;  but  he  had  said  to  himself  that  this  was 
not  because  the  young  man  had  spared  her,  but  be- 
cause she  had  contrived  to  plaster  up  her  wounds. 
They  were  aching  there  behind  the  varnished  stove, 
the  festooned  engravings,  beneath  her  own  neat  lit- 
tle poplin  bosom ;  and  if  he  could  only  touch  the  ten- 
der spot,  she  would  make  a  movement  that  would 
betray  her.  The  words  I  have  just  quoted  were  an 
attempt  to  put  his  finger  suddenly  upon  the  place, 
and  they  had  some  of  the  success  that  he  looked  for. 
The  tears  sprung  for  a  moment  to  Mrs.  Montgom- 
ery's eyes,  and  she  indulged  in  a  proud  little  jerk  of 
the  head. 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  have  found  that  out !"  she 
exclaimed. 

"By  a  philosophic  trick — by  what  they  call  in- 
duction. You  know  you  have  always  your  option 
of  contradicting  me.  But  kindly  answer  me  a  ques- 
tion :  Don't  you  give  your  brother  money  ?  I  think 
you  ought  to  answer  that." 

"Yes,  I  have  given  him  money,"  said  Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery. 

"  And  you  have  not  had  much  to  give  him  ?" 

She  was  silent  a  moment.  "  If  you  ask  me  for  a 
confession  of  poverty,  that  is  easily  made.  I  am 
very  poor." 

"One  would  never  suppose  it  from  your — your 
charming  house,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  I  learned  from 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  107 

my  sister  that  your  income  was  moderate,  and  your 
family  numerous." 

"I  have  five  children,"  Mrs.  Montgomery  ob- 
served ;  "  but  I  am  happy  to  say  I  can  bring  them 
up  decently." 

"  Of  course  you  can — accomplished  and  devoted 
as  you  are.  But  your  brother  has  counted  them 
over,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Counted  them  over  ?" 

"  He  knows  there  are  five,  I  mean.  He  tells  me 
it  is  he  that  brings  them  up." 

Mrs.  Montgomery  stared  a  moment,  and  then 
quickly — "  Oh  yes ;  he  teaches  them — Spanish." 

The  Doctor  laughed  out.  "That  must  take  a 
great  deal  off  your  hands !  Your  brother  also  knows, 
of  course,  that  you  have  very  little  money  ?" 

"I  have  often  told  him  so,"  Mrs.  Montgomery 
exclaimed,  more  unreservedly  than  she  had  yet 
spoken.  She  was  apparently  taking  some  comfort 
in  the  Doctor's  clairvoyance. 

"Which  means  that  you  have  often  occasion  to, 
and  that  he  often  sponges  on  you.  Excuse  the  cru- 
dity of  my  language ;  I  simply  express  a  fact.  I 
don't  ask  you  how  much  of  your  money  he  has  had, 
it  is  none  of  my  business.  I  have  ascertained  what 
I  suspected — what  I  wished."  And  the  Doctor  got 
up,  gently  smoothing  his  hat.  "  Your  brother  lives 
on  you,"  he  said,  as  he  stood  there. 

Mrs.  Montgomery  quickly  rose  from  her  chair, 
following  her  visitor's  movements  with  a  look  of 
fascination.  But  then,  with  a  certain  inconsequence 
— "  I  have  never  complained  of  him,"  she  said. 

"You  needn't  protest  —  you  have  not  betrayed 


108  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

him.  But  I  advise  you  not  to  give  him  any  more 
money." 

"  Don't  you  see  it  is  in  my  interest  that  he  should 
marry  a  rich  person  ?"  she  asked.  "  If,  as  you  say, 
he  lives  on  me,  I  can  only  wish  to  get  rid  of  him ; 
and  to  put  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his  marrying  is 
to  increase  my  own  difficulties." 

"I  wish  very  much  you  would  come  to  me  with 
your  difficulties,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  Certainly,  if  I 
throw  him  back  on  your  hands,  the  least  I  can  do  is 
to  help  you  to  bear  the  burden.  If  you  will  allow 
me  to  say  so,  then,  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  placing 
in  your  hands,  for  the  present,  a  certain  fund  for 
your  brother's  support." 

Mrs.  Montgomery  stared ;  she  evidently  thought 
he  was  jesting;  but  she  presently  saw  that  he  was 
not,  and  the  complication  of  her  feelings  became 
painful.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  I  ought  to  be  very 
much  offended  with  you,"  she  murmured. 

"Because  I  have  offered  you  money?  That's  a 
superstition,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  You  must  let  me 
come  and  see  you  again,  and  we  will  talk  about  these 
things.  I  suppose  that  some  of  your  children  are 
girls?" 

"  I  have  two  little  girls."  said  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

"  Well,  when  they  grow  up,  and  begin  to  think  of 
taking  husbands,  you  will  see  how  anxious  you  will 
be  about  the  moral  character  of  these  husbands. 
Then  you  will  understand  this  visit  of  mine." 

"Ah,  you  are  not  to  believe  that  Morris's  moral 
character  is  bad." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  her  a  little,  with  folded 
arms.  "  There  is  something  I  should  greatly  like, 


"DON'T  LET  HER  MARRY  HIM. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  Ill 

as  a  moral  satisfaction.  I  should  like  to  hear  you 
say, '  He  is  abominably  selfish.'  " 

The  words  came  out  with  the  grave  distinctness 
of  his  voice,  and  they  seemed  for  an  instant  to  create, 
to  poor  Mrs.  Montgomery's  troubled  vision,  a  mate- 
rial image.  She  gazed  at  it  an  instant,  and  then  she 
turned  away.  "  You  distress  me,  sir !"  she  exclaim- 
ed. "  He  is,  after  all,  my  brother ;  and  his  talents, 
his  talents —  On  these  last  words  her  voice  quaver- 
ed, and  before  he  knew  it  she  had  burst  into  tears. 

"  His  talents  are  first-rate,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  We 
must  find  the  proper  field  for  them."  And  he  as- 
sured her  most  respectfully  of  his  regret  at  having 
so  greatly  discomposed  her.  "It's  all  for  my  poor 
Catherine,"  he  went  on.  "  You  must  know  her,  and 
you  will  see." 

Mrs.  Montgomery  brushed  away  her  tears,  and 
blushed  at  having  shed  them.  "I  should  like  to 
know  your  daughter,"  she  answered ;  and  then,  in 
an  instant — "  Don't  let  her  marry  him  !" 

Doctor  Sloper  went  away  with  the  words  gently 
humming  in  his  ears — "Don't  let  her  marry  him!" 
They  gave  him  the  moral  satisfaction  of  which  he 
had  just  spoken,  and  their  value  was  the  greater 
that  they  had  evidently  cost  a  pang  to  poor  little 
Mrs.  Montgomery's  family  pride. 


112         '  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 


XV. 

HE  had  been  puzzled  by  the  way  that  Catherine 
carried  herself ;  her  attitude  at  this  sentimental  cri- 
sis seemed  to  him  unnaturally  passive.  She  had  not 
spoken  to  him  again  after  that  scene  in  the  library, 
the  day  before  his  interview  with  Morris;  and  a 
week  had  elapsed  without  making  any  change  in 
her  manner.  There  was  nothing  in  it  that  appealed 
for  pity,  and  he  was  even  a  little  disappointed  at  her 
not  giving  him  an  opportunity  to  make  up  for  his 
harshness  by  some  manifestation  of  liberality  which 
should  operate  as  a  compensation.  He  thought  a 
little  of  offering  to  take  her  for  a  tour  in  Europe  ; 
but  he  was  determined  to  do  this  only  in  case  she 
should  seem  mutely  to  reproach  him.  He  had  an 
idea  that  she  would  display  a  talent  for  mute  re- 
proaches, and  he  was  surprised  at  not  finding  him- 
self exposed  to  these  silent  batteries.  She  said 
nothing,  either  tacitly  or  explicitly,  and  as  she  was 
never  very  talkative,  there  was  now  no  especial  elo- 
quence in  her  reserve.  And  poor  Catherine  was 
not  sulky — a  style  of  behavior  for  which  she  had 
too  little  histrionic  talent — she  was  simply  very 
patient.  Of  course  she  was  thinking  over  her  situa- 
tion, and  she  was  apparently  doing  so  in  a  deliberate 
and  unimpassioned  manner,  with  a  view  of  making 
the  best  of  it. 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  113 

"  She  will  do  as  I  have  bidden  her,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor; and  he  made  the  further  reflection  that  his 
daughter  was  not  a  woman  of  a  great  spirit. 

I  know  not  whether  he  had  hoped  for  a  little 
more  resistance  for  the  sake  of  a  little  more  enter- 
tainment ;  but  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  had  said  be- 
fore, that  though  it  might  have  its  momentary  alarms, 
paternity  was,  after  all,  not  an  exciting  vocation. 

Catherine  meanwhile  had  made  a  discovery  of  a 
very  different  sort ;  it  had  become  vivid  to  her  that 
there  was  a  great  excitement  in  trying  to  be  a  good 
daughter.  She  had  an  entirely  new  feeling,  which 
may  be  described  as  a  state  of  expectant  suspense 
about  her  own  actions.  She  watched  herself  as  she 
would  have  watched  another  person,  and  wondered 
what  she  would  do.  It  was  as  if  this  other  person, 
who  was  both  herself  and  not  herself,  had  suddenly 
sprung  into  being,  inspiring  her  with  a  natural  curi- 
osity as  to  the  performance  of  untested  functions. 

"  I  am  glad  I  have  such  a  good  daughter,"  said 
her  father,  kissing  her,  after  the  lapse  of  several 
days. 

"  I  am  trying  to  be  good,"  she  answered,  turning 
away,  with  a  conscience  not  altogether  clear. 

"  If  there  is  anything  you  would  like  to  say  to 
me,  you  know  you  must  not  hesitate.  You  needn't 
feel  obliged  to  be  so  quiet.  I  shouldn't  care  that 
Mr.  Townsend  should  be  a  frequent  topic  of  conver- 
sation, but  whenever  you  have  anything  particular 
to  say  about  him  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  hear  it.'.' 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Catherine ;  "  I  have  nothing 
particular  at  present." 

He  never  asked  her  whether  she  had  seen  Morris 

8 


114  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

again,  because  he  was  sure  that  if  this  had  been  the 
case  she  would  tell  him.  She  had,  in  fact,  not  seen 
him ;  she  had  only  written  him  a  long  letter.  The 
letter,  at  least,  was  long  for  her;  and,  it  may  be 
added,  that  it  was  long  for  Morris ;  it  consisted  of 
five  pages,  in  a  remarkably  neat  and  handsome  hand. 
Catherine's  handwriting  was  beautiful,  and  she  was 
even  a  little  proud  of  it:  she  was  extremely  fond 
of  copying,  and  possessed  volumes  of  extracts  which 
testified  to  this  accomplishment;  volumes  which 
she  had  exhibited  one  day  to  her  lover,  when  the 
bliss  of  feeling  that  she  was  important  in  his  eyes 
was  exceptionally  keen.  She  told  Morris,  in  writ- 
ing, that  her  father  had  expressed  the  wish  that  she 
should  not  see  him  again,  and  that  she  begged  he 
would  not  come  to  the  house  until  she  should  have 
"  made  up  her  mind."  Morris  replied  with  a  pas- 
sionate epistle,  in  which  he  asked  to  what,  in 
Heaven's  name,  she  wished  to  make  up  her  mind. 
Had  not  her  mind  been  made  up  two  weeks  before, 
and  could  it  be  possible  that  she  entertained  the  idea 
of  throwing  him  off  ?  Did  she  mean  to  break  down 
at  the  very  beginning  of  their  ordeal,  after  all  the 
promises  of  fidelity  she  had  both  given  and  extract- 
ed ?  And  he  gave  an  account  of  his  own  interview 
with  her  father  —  an  account  not  identical  at  all 
points  with  that  offered  in  these  pages.  "  He  was 
terribly  violent,"  Morris  wrote,  "  but  you  know  my 
self-control.  I  have  need  of  it  all  when  I  remem- 
ber that  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  break  in  upon 
your  cruel  captivity."  Catherine  sent  him,  in  answer 
to  this,  a  note  of  three  lines.  "  I  am  in  great  trou- 
ble ;  do  not  doubt  of  my  affection,  but  let  me  wait 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  115 

a  little  and  think."  The  idea  of  a  struggle  with 
her  father,  of  setting  up  her  will  against  his  own, 
was  heavy  on  her  soul,  and  it  kept  her  quiet,  as  a 
great  physical  weight  keeps  us  motionless.  It  never 
entered  into  her  mind  to  throw  her  lover  off;  but 
from  the  first  she  tried  to  assure  herself  that  there 
would  be  a  peaceful  way  out  of  their  difficulty. 
The  assurance  was  vague,  for  it  contained  no  ele- 
ment of  positive  conviction  that  her  father  would 
change  his  mind.  She  only  had  an  idea  that  if  she 
should  be  very  good,  the  situation  would  in  some 
mysterious  manner  improve.  To  be  good  she  must 
be  patient,  outwardly  submissive,  abstain  from  judg- 
ing her  father  too  harshly,  and  from  committing  any 
act  of  open  defiance.  He  was  perhaps  right,  after  all, 
to  think  as  he  did ;  by  which  Catherine  meant  not 
in  the  least  that  his  judgment  of  Morris's  motives 
in  seeking  to  marry  her  was  perhaps  a  just  one,  but 
that  it  was  probably  natural  and  proper  that  con- 
scientious parents  should  be  suspicious  and  even  un- 
just. There  were  probably  people  in  the  world  as 
bad  as  her  father  supposed  Morris  to  be,  and  if  there 
were  the  slightest  chance  of  Morris  being  one  of 
these  sinister  persons,  the  Doctor  was  right  in  taking 
it  into  account.  Of  course  he  could  not  know  what 
she  knew — how  the  purest  love  and  truth  were  seat- 
ed in  the  young  man's  eyes ;  but  Heaven,  in  its  time, 
might  appoint  a  way  of  bringing  him  to  such  knowl- 
edge. Catherine  expected  a  good  deal  of  Heaven, 
and  referred  to  the  skies  the  initiative,  as  the  French 
say,  in  dealing  with  her  dilemma.  She  could  not 
imagine  herself  imparting  any  kind  of  knowledge 
to  her  father ;  there  was  something  superior  even  in 


116  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

his  injustice,  and  absolute  in  his  mistakes.  But  she 
could  at  least  be  good,  and  if  she  were  only  good 
enough,  Heaven  would  invent  some  way  of  recon- 
ciling all  things — the  dignity  of  her  father's  errors 
and  the  sweetness  of  her  own  confidence,  the  strict 
performance  of  her  filial  duties,  and  the  enjoyment 
of  Morris  Townsend's  affection. 

Poor  Catherine  would  have  been  glad  to  regard 
Mrs.  Penniman  as  an  illuminating  agent,  a  part  which 
this  lady  herself,  indeed,  was  but  imperfectly  pre- 
pared to  play.  Mrs.  Penniman  took  too  much  sat- 
isfaction in  the  sentimental  shadows  of  this  little 
drama  to  have,  for  the  moment,  any  great  interest 
in  dissipating  them.  She  wished  the  plot  to  thicken, 
and  the  advice  that  she  gave  her  niece  tended,  in 
her  own  imagination,  to  produce  this  result.  It  was 
rather  incoherent  counsel,  and  from  one  day  to  an- 
other it  contradicted  itself ;  but  it  was  pervaded  by 
an  earnest  desire  that  Catherine  should  do  something 
striking.  "  You  must  act,  my  dear ;  in  your  situa- 
tion the  great  thing  is  to  act,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman, 
who  found  her  niece  altogether  beneath  her  oppor- 
tunities. Mrs.  Penniman's  real  hope  was  that  the 
girl  would  make  a  secret  marriage,  at  which  she 
should  officiate  as  bride'swoman  or  duenna.  She  had 
a  vision  of  this  ceremony  being  performed  in  some 
subterranean  chapel;  subterranean  chapels  in  New 
York  were  not  frequent,  but  Mrs.  Penniman's  im- 
agination was  not  chilled  by  trifles ;  and  of  the  guilty 
couple — she  liked  to  think  of  poor  Catherine  and  her 
suitor  as  the  guilty  couple — being  shuffled  away  in 
a  fast-whirling  vehicle  to  some  obscure  lodging  in 
the  suburbs,  where  she  would  pay  them  (in  a  thick 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  117 

veil)  clandestine  visits ;  where  they  would  endure  a 
period  of  romantic  privation ;  and  when  ultimately, 
after  she  should  have  been  their  earthly  providence, 
their  intercessor,  their  advocate,  and  their  medium 
of  communication  with  the  world,  they  would  be 
reconciled  to  her  brother  in  an  artistic  tableau,  in 
which  she  herself  should  be  somehow  the  central 
figure.  She  hesitated  as  yet  to  recommend  this 
course  to  Catherine,  but  she  attempted  to  draw  an 
attractive  picture  of  it  to  Morris  Townsend.  She 
was  in  daily  communication  with  the  young  man, 
whom  she  kept  informed  by  letters  of  the  state  of 
affairs  in  Washington  Square.  As  he  had  been  ban- 
ished, as  she  said,  from  the  house,  she  no  longer  saw 
him  ;  but  she  ended  by  writing  to  him  that  she  long- 
ed for  an  interview.  This  interview  could  take 
place  only  on  neutral  ground,  and  she  bethought 
herself  greatly  before  selecting  a  place  of  meeting. 
She  had  an  inclination  for  Greenwood  Cemetery,  but 
she  gave  it  up  as  too  distant;  she  could  not  absent 
herself  for  so  long,  as  she  said,  without  exciting  sus- 
picion. Then  she  thought  of  the  Battery,  but  that 
was  rather  cold  and  windy,  besides  one's  being  ex- 
posed to  intrusion  from  the  Irish  emigrants  who  at 
this  point  alight,  with  large  appetites,  in  the  New 
World ;  and  at  last  she  fixed  upon  an  oyster  saloon 
in  the  Seventh  Avenue,  kept  by  a  negro — an  es- 
tablishment of  which  she  knew  nothing  save  that 
she  had  noticed  it  in  passing.  She  made  an  appoint- 
ment with  Morris  Townsend  to  meet  him  there,  and 
she  went  to  the  tryst  at  dusk,  enveloped  in  an  im- 
penetrable veil.  He  kept  her  waiting  for  half  an 
hour — he  had  almost  the  whole  width  of  the  city  to 


118  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

traverse — but  she  liked  to  wait,  it  seemed,  to  inten- 
sify the  situation.  She  ordered  a  cup  of  tea,  which 
proved  excessively  bad,  and  this  gave  her  a  sense 
that  she  was  suffering  in  a  romantic  cause.  When 
Morris  at  last  arrived,  they  sat  together  for  half  an 
hour  in  the  duskiest  corner  of  the  back  shop ;  and 
it  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  this  was  the  hap- 
piest half-hour  that  Mrs.  Penniman  had  known  for 
years.  The  situation  was  really  thrilling,  and  it 
scarcely  seemed  to  her  a  false  note  when  her  com- 
panion asked  for  an  oyster  stew,  and  proceeded  to 
consume  it  before  her  eyes.  Morris,  indeed,  need- 
ed all  the  satisfaction  that  stewed  oysters  could  give 
him,  for  it  may  be  intimated  to  the  reader  that  he 
regarded  Mrs.  Penniman  in  the  light  of  a  fifth  wheel 
to  his  coach.  He  was  in  a  state  of  irritation  natural 
to  a  gentleman  of  fine  parts  who  had  been  snubbed 
in  a  benevolent  attempt  to  confer  a  distinction  upon 
a  young  woman  of  inferior  characteristics,  and  the 
insinuating  sympathy  of  this  somewhat  desiccated 
matron  appeared  to  offer  him  no  practical  relief. 
He  thought  her  a  humbug,  and  he  judged  of  hum- 
bugs with  a  good  deal  of  confidence.  He  had  listen- 
ed and  made  himself  agreeable  to  her  at  first,  in  or- 
der to  get  a  footing  in  Washington  Square ;  and  at 
present  he  needed  all  his  self-command  to  be  decent- 
ly civil.  It  would  have  gratified  him  to  tell  her  that 
she  was  a  fantastic  old  woman,  and  that  he  would 
like  to  put  her  into  an  omnibus  and  send  her  home. 
We  know,  however,  that  Morris  possessed  the  virtue 
of  self-control,  and  he  had  moreover  the  constant 
habit  of  seeking  to  be  agreeable ;  so  that,  although 
Mrs.  Pen ni man's  demeanor  only  exasperated  his  al- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  119 

ready  unquiet   nerves,  he  listened  to   her   with   a 
sombre  deference  in  which  she  found  much  to  ad- 


mire. 


XYI. 

THEY  had  of  course  immediately  spoken  of  Cath- 
erine. "  Did  she  send  me  a  message,  or — or  any- 
thing?" Morris  asked.  He  appeared  to  think  that 
she  might  have  sent  him  a  trinket  or  a  lock  of  her 
hair. 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  slightly  embarrassed,  for  she 
had  not  told  her  niece  of  her  intended  expedition. 
"  Not  exactly  a  message,"  she  said ;  "  I  didn't  ask 
her  for  one,  because  I  was  afraid  to — to  excite  her." 

"I  am  afraid  she  is  not  very  excitable."  And 
Morris  gave  a  smile  of  some  bitterness. 

"  She  is  better  than  that — she  is  steadfast,  she  is 
true." 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  hold  fast,  then?" 

"  To  the  death  !" 

"  Oh,  I  hope  it  won't  come  to  that,"  said  Morris. 

"  We  must  be  prepared  for  the  worst,  and  that  is 
what  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about." 

u  What  do  you  call  the  worst  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  "  my  brother's  hard, 
intellectual  nature." 

"  Oh,  the  devil !" 

"  He  is  impervious  to  pity,"  Mrs.  Penniman  add- 
ed, by  way  of  explanation. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  he  won't  come  round  ?" 

"  He  will  never  be  vanquished  by  argument.     I 


120  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

have  studied  him.  He  will  be  vanquished  only  by 
the  accomplished  fact." 

"  The  accomplished  fact  ?" 

"  He  will  come  round  afterward,"  said  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman,  with  extreme  significance.  "  He  cares  for 
nothing  but  facts — he  must  be  met  by  facts." 

"  Well,"  rejoined  Morris,  "  it  is  a  fact  that  I  wish 
to  marry  his  daughter.  I  met  him  with  that  the 
other  day,  but  he  was  not  at  all  vanquished." 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  silent  a  little,  and  her  smile 
beneath  the  shadow  of  her  capacious  bonnet,  on  the 
edge  of  which  her  black  veil  was  arranged  curtain- 
wise,  fixed  itself  upon  Morris's  face  with  a  still  more 
tender  brilliancy.  "  Marry  Catherine  first,  and  meet 
him  afterward !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Do  you  recommend  that?"  asked  the  young 
man,  frowning  heavily. 

She  was  a  little  frightened,  but  she  went  on  with 
considerable  boldness.  "  That  is  the  way  I  see  it : 
a  private  marriage — a  private  marriage."  She  re- 
peated the  phrase  because  she  liked  it. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  should  carry  Catherine  off  ? 
What  do  they  call  it — elope  with  her  ?" 

"  It  is*  not  a  crime  when  you  are  driven  to  it," 
said  Mrs.  Penniman.  "  My  husband,  as  I  have  told 
you,  was  a  distinguished  clergyman — one  of  the 
most  eloquent  men  of  his  day.  He  once  married  a 
young  couple  that  had  fled  from  the  house  of  the 
young  lady's  father;  he  was  so  interested  in  their 
story.  He  had  no  hesitation,  and  everything  came 
out  beautifully.  The  father  was  afterward  recon- 
ciled, and  thought  everything  of  the  young  man. 
Mr.  Penniman  married  them  in  the  evening,  about 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  121 

seven  o'clock.  The  church  was  so  dark  you  could 
scarcely  see,  and  Mr.  Penniman  was  intensely  agi- 
tated— he  was  so  sympathetic.  I  don't  believe  he 
could  have  done  it  again." 

"Unfortunately,  Catherine  and  I  have  not  Mr. 
Penniman,  to  marry  us,"  said  Morris. 

"  No,  but  you  have  me !"  rejoined  Mrs.  Penniman, 
expressively.  "  I  can't  perform  the  ceremony,  but 
I  can  help  you  ;  I  can  watch !" 

"  The  woman's  an  idiot !"  thought  Morris ;  but  he 
was  obliged  to  say  something  different.  It  was  not, 
however,  materially  more  civil.  "  Was  it  in  order 
to  tell  me  this  that  you  requested  I  would  meet  you 
here  ?" 

Mrs.  Penniman  had  been  conscious  of  a  certain 
vagueness  in  her  errand,  and  of  not  being  able  to 
offer  him  any  very  tangible  reward  for  his  long 
walk.  "  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  like  to  see 
one  who  is  so  near  to  Catherine,"  she  observed, 
with  considerable  majesty ;  "  and  also,"  she  added, 
"that  you  would  value  an  opportunity  of  sending 
her  something." 

Morris  extended  his  empty  hands  with  a  melan- 
choly smile.  "  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you,  but  I 
have  nothing  to  send." 

"Haven't  you  a  word?"  asked  his  companion, 
with  her  suggestive  smile  coming  back. 

Morris  frowned  again.  "  Tell  her  to  hold  fast," 
he  said,  rather  curtly. 

"That  is  a  good  word — a  noble  word:  it  will 
make  her  happy  for  many  days.  She  is  very  touch- 
ing, very  brave,"  Mrs.  Penniman  went  on,  arranging 
her  mantle  and  preparing  to  depart.  While  she 


122  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

was  so  engaged  she  had  an  inspiration ;  she  found 
the  phrase  that  she  could  boldly  offer  as  a  vindica- 
tion of  the  step  she  had  taken.  "  If  you  marry  Cath- 
erine at  all  risks,"  she  said,  "you  will  give  my  brother 
a  proof  of  your  being  what  he  pretends  to  doubt." 

"  What  he  pretends  to  doubt  ?" 

"  Don't  you  know  what  that  is  ?"  Mrs.  Penniman 
asked,  almost  playfully. 

"  It  does  not  concern  me  to  know,"  said  Morris, 
grandly. 

"  Of  course  it  makes  you  angry." 

"  I  despise  it,"  Morris  declared. 

"  Ah,  you  know  what  it  is,  then  ?"  said  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman, shaking  her  finger  at  him.  "  He  pretends 
that  you  like — you  like  the  money." 

Morris  hesitated  a  moment ;  and  then,  as  if  he 
spoke  advisedly,  "I  do  like  the  money  !" 

"Ah,  but  not  —  but  not  as  he  means  it.  You 
don't  like  it  more  than  Catherine  ?" 

He  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  buried  his 
head  in  his  hands.  "You  torture  me!"  he  mur- 
mured. And,  indeed,  this  was  almost  the  effect  of 
the  poor  lady's  too  importunate  interest  in  his  situ- 
ation. 

But  she  insisted  in  making  her  point.  "  If  you 
marry  her  in  spite  of  him,  he  will  take  for  granted 
that  you  expect  nothing  of  him,  and  are  prepared  to 
do  without  it;  and  so  he  will  see  that  you  are  dis- 
interested." 

Morris  raised  his  head  a  little,  following  this  argu- 
ment. "  And  what  shall  I  gain  by  that  ?" 

"  Why,  that  he  will  see  that  he  has  been  wrong  in 
thinking  that  you  wished  to  get  his  money." 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  123 

"And  seeing  that  I  wish  he  would  go  to  the  deuce 
with  it,  he  will  leave  it  to  a  hospital.  Is  that  what 
you  mean  ?"  asked  Morris. 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  that ;  though  that  would  be 
very  grand,"  Mrs.  Penniman  quickly  added.  "  I 
mean  that,  having  done  you  such  an  injustice,  he 
will  think  it  his  duty,  at  the  end,  to  make  some 
amends." 

Morris  shook  his  head,  though  it  must  be  confess- 
ed he  was  a  little  struck  with  this  idea.  "Do  you 
think  he  is  so  sentimental  ?" 

"  He  is  not  sentimental,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman ; 
"  but,  to  be  perfectly  fair  to  him,  I  think  he  has,  in 
his  own  narrow  way,  a  certain  sense  of  duty." 

There  passed  through  Morris  Townsend's  mind  a 
rapid  wonder  as  to  what  he  might,  even  under  a  re- 
mote contingency,  be  indebted  to  from  the  action  of 
this  principle  in  Doctor  Sloper's  breast,  and  the  in- 
quiry exhausted  itself  in  his  sense  of  the  ludicrous. 
"  Your  brother  has  no  duties  to  me,"  he  said  pres- 
ently, "  and  I  none  to  him." 

"Ah, but  he  has  duties  to  Catherine." 

"  Yes ;  but  you  see,  on  that  principle  Catherine 
has  duties  to  him  as  well." 

Mrs.  Penniman  got  up  with  a  melancholy  sigh,  as 
if  she  thought  him  very  unimaginative.  "  She  has 
always  performed  them  faithfully ;  and  now  do  you 
think  she  has  no  duties  to  you?"  Mrs.  Penniman 
always,  even  in  conversation,  italicized  her  personal 
pronouns. 

"  It  would  sound  harsh  to  say  so.  I  am  so  grate- 
ful for  her  love,"  Morris  added. 

"  I  will  tell  her  you  said  that.     And  now,  remem- 


124  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

ber  that  if  you  need  me  I  am  there."  And  Mrs. 
Penniman,  who  could  think  of  nothing  more  to  say, 
nodded  vaguely  in  the  direction  of  Washington 
Square. 

Morris  looked  some  moments  at  the  sanded  floor 
of  the  shop ;  he  seemed  to  be  disposed  to  linger  a 
moment.  At  last,  looking  up  with  a  certain  abrupt- 
ness, "  It  is  your  belief  that  if  she  marries  me  he 
will  cut  her  off  ?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Penniman  stared  a  little,  and  smiled.  ""Why, 
I  have  explained  to  you  what  I  think  would  happen 
— that  in  the  end  it  would  be  the  best  thing  to  do." 

"  You  mean  that,  whatever  she  does,  in  the  long- 
run  she  will  get  the  money  ?" 

"  It  doesn't  depend  upon  her,  but  upon  you. 
Venture  to  appear  as  disinterested  as  you  are,"  said 
Mrs.  Penniman,  ingeniously.  Morris  dropped  his 
eyes  on  the  sanded  floor  again,  pondering  this,  and 
she  pursued  :  "  Mr.  Penniman  and  I  had  nothing, 
and  we  were  very  happy.  Catherine,  moreover, 
has  her  mother's  fortune,  which,  at  the  time  my  sis- 
ter-in-law married,  was  considered  a  very  handsome 
one." 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  of  that !"  said  Morris  ;  and  in- 
deed it  was  quite  superfluous,  for  he  had  contem- 
plated the  fact  in  all  its  lights. 

"Austin  married  a  wife  with  money  —  why 
shouldn't  you  ?" 

"  Ah !  but  your  brother  was  a  doctor,"  Morris  ob- 
jected. 

"  Well,  all  young  men  can't  be  doctors." 

"  I  should  think  it  an  extremely  loathsome  pro- 
fession," said  Morris,  with  an  air  of  intellectual  in- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  125 

dependence  ;  then,  in  a  moment,  he  went  on  rather 
inconsequently, "  Do  you  suppose  there  is  a  will  al- 
ready made  in  Catherine's  favor  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so — even  doctors  must  die ;  and  per- 
haps a  little  in  mine,"  Mrs.  Penniman  frankly  added. 

"And  you  believe  he  would  certainly  change  it — 
as  regards  Catherine  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  then  change  it  back  again." 

"  Ah,  but  one  can't  depend  on  that,"  said  Morris. 

"  Do  you  want  to  depend  on  it  ?"  Mrs.  Penniman 
asked. 

Morris  blushed  a  little.  "  Well,  I  am  certainly 
afraid  of  being  the  cause  of  an  injury  to  Cathe- 
rine." 

"Ah!  you  must  not  be  afraid.  Be  afraid  of 
nothing,  and  everything  will  go  well." 

And  then  Mrs.  Penniman  paid  for  her  cup  of  tea, 
and  Morris  paid  for  his  oyster  stew,  and  they  went 
out  together  into  the  dimly -lighted  wilderness  of 
the  Seventh  Avenue.  The  dusk  had  closed  in  com- 
pletely, and  the  street  lamps  were  separated  by  wide 
intervals  of  a  pavement  in  which  cavities  and  fis- 
sures played  a  disproportionate  part.  An  omnibus, 
emblazoned  with  strange  pictures,  went  tumbling 
over  the  dislocated  cobble-stones. 

"  How  will  you  go  home  ?"  Morris  asked,  follow- 
ing this  vehicle  with  an  interested  eye.  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman had  taken  his  arm. 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  "  I  think  this  manner 
would  be  pleasant,"  she  said;  and  she  continued  to 
let  him  feel  the  value  of  his  support. 

So  he  walked  with  her  through  the  devious  ways 
of  the  west  side  of  the  town,  and  through  the  bustle 


126  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

of  gathering  nightfall  in  populous  streets,  to  the 
quiet  precinct  of  Washington  Square.  They  lin- 
gered a  moment  at  the  foot  of  Doctor  Sloper's  white 
marble  steps,  above  which  a  spotless  white  door, 
adorned  with  a  glittering  silver  plate,  seemed  to  fig- 
ure for  Morris  the  closed  portal  of  happiness ;  and 
then  Mrs.  Penniman's  companion  rested  a  melan- 
choly eye  upon  a  lighted  window  in  the  upper  part 
of  the  house. 

"  That  is  my  room — my  dear  little  room !"  Mrs. 
Penniman  remarked. 

Morris  started.  "  Then  I  needn't  come  walking 
round  the  Square  to  gaze  at  it." 

"  That's  as  you  please.  But  Catherine's  is  be- 
hind ;  two  noble  windows  on  the  second  floor.  I 
think  you  can  see  them  from  the  other  street." 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  them,  ma'am."  And  Morris 
turned  his  back  to  the  house. 

"  I  will  tell  her  you  have  been  here,  at  any  rate," 
said  Mrs.  Penniman,  pointing  to  the  spot  where  they 
stood  ;  "  and  I  will  give  her  your  message — that  she 
is  to  hold  fast." 

"  Oh  yes ;  of  course.  You  know  I  write  her  all 
that." 

"It  seems  to  say  more  when  it  is  spoken.  And 
remember,  if  you  need  me,  that  I  am  there"  and  Mrs. 
Penniman  glanced  at  the  third  floor. 

On  this  they  separated,  and  Morris,  left  to  him- 
self, stood  looking  at  the  house  a  moment ;  after 
which  he  turned  away,  and  took  a  gloomy  walk  round 
the  Square,  on  the  opposite  side,  close  to  the  wooden 
fence.  Then  he  came  back,  and  paused  for  a  min- 
ute in  front  of  Doctor  Sloper's  dwelling.  His  eyes 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  127 

travelled  over  it;  they  even  rested  on  the  ruddy 
windows  of  Mrs.  Penniman's  apartment.  He  thought 
it  a  devilish  comfortable  house. 


XYII. 

MRS.  PENNIMAN  told  Catherine  that  evening — the 
two  ladies  were  sitting  in  the  back-parlor — that  she 
had  had  an  interview  with  Morris  Townsend ;  and 
on  receiving  this  news  the  girl  started  with  a  sense 
of  pain.  She  felt  angry  for  the  moment;  it  was 
almost  the  first  time  she  had  ever  felt  angry.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  her  aunt  was  meddlesome ;  and 
from  this  came  a  vague  apprehension  that  she  would 
spoil  something. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  have  seen  him.  I 
don't  think  it  was  right,"  Catherine  said. 

"  I  was  so  sorry  for  him — it  seemed  to  me  some 
one  ought  to  see  him." 

"  No  one  but  I,"  said  Catherine,  who  felt  as  if  she 
were  making  the  most  presumptuous  speech  of  her 
life,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  had  an  instinct  that 
she  was  right  in  doing  so. 

"  But  you  wouldn't,  my  dear,"  Aunt  Lavinia  re- 
joined ;  "  and  I  didn't  know  what  might  have  be- 
come of  him." 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  because  my  father  has  for- 
bidden it,"  Catherine  said,  very  simply. 

There  was  a  simplicity  in  this,  indeed,  which 
fairly  vexed  Mrs.  Penniman.  "  If  your  father  for- 
bade you  to  go  to  sleep,  I  suppose  you  would  keep 
awake !"  she  commented. 


128  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

Catherine  looked  at  her.  "I  don't  understand 
you.  You  seem  to  me  very  strange." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  will  understand  me  some 
day !"  And  Mrs.  Penniman,  who  was  reading  the 
evening  paper,  which  she  perused  daily  from  the 
first  line  to  the  last,  resumed  her  occupation.  She 
wrapped  herself  in  silence;  she  was  determined 
Catherine  should  ask  her  for  an  account  of  her  in- 
terview with  Morris.  But  Catherine  was  silent  for 
so  long  that  she  almost  lost  patience;  and  she  was 
on  the  point  of  remarking  to  her  that  she  was  very 
heartless,  when  the  girl  at  last  spoke. 

"  What  did  he  say  ?"  she  asked. 

"  He  said  he  is  ready  to  marry  you  any  day,  in 
spite  of  everything." 

Catherine  made  no  answer  to  this,  and  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman almost  lost  patience  again ;  owing  to  which 
she  at  last  volunteered  the  information  that  Morris 
looked  very  handsome,  but  terribly  haggard. 

"  Did  he  seem  sad  ?"  asked  her  niece. 

"  He  was  dark  under  the  eyes,"  said  Mrs.  Penni- 
man. "  So  different  from  when  I  first  saw  him ; 
though  I  am  not  sure  that  if  I  had  seen  him  in  this 
condition  the  first  time,  I  should  not  have  been  even 
more  struck  with  him.  There  is  something  brilliant 
in  his  very  misery." 

This  was,  to  Catherine's  sense,  a  vivid  picture, 
and  though  she  disapproved,  she  felt  herself  gazing 
at  it.  "  Where  did  you  see  him  ?"  she  asked,  pres- 
ently. 

"  In — in  the  Bowery ;  at  a  confectioner's,"  said 
Mrs.  Penniman,  who  had  a  general  idea  that  she 
ought  to  dissemble  a  little. 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  129 

"  Whereabouts  is  the  place  ?"  Catherine  inquired, 
after  another  pause. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  go1  there,  my .  dear  ?"  said  her 
aunt. 

"  Oh  no."  And  Catherine  got  up  from  her  seat 
and  went  to  the  fire,  where  she  stood  looking  awhile 
at  the  glowing  coals. 

"  Why  are  you  so  dry,  Catherine  ?"  Mrs.  Penniman 
said  at  last. 

"So  dry?" 

"  So  cold — so  irresponsive." 

The  girl  turned  very  quickly.    "  Did  he  say  that  ?" 

Mrs.  Penniman  hesitated  a  moment.  "  I  wilj:  tell 
you  what  he  said.  He  said  he  feared  only  one  thing 
— that  you  would  be  afraid." 

"  Afraid  of  what  ?" 

"  Afraid  of  your  father." 

Catherine  turned  back  to  the  fire  again,  and 
then,  after  a  pause,  she  said,  "I  am  afraid  of  my 
father." 

Mrs.  Penniman  got  quickly  up  from  her  chair  and 
approached  her  niece.  "  Do  you  mean  to  give  him 
up,  then  ?" 

Catherine  for  some  time  never  moved ;  she  kept 
her  eyes  on  the  coals.  At  last  she  raised  her  head 
and  looked  at  her  aunt.  "Why  do  you  push  me 
so  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  push  you.  When  have  I  spoken  to  you 
before  ?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  spoken  to  me  sev- 
eral times." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  necessary,  then,  Catherine,"  said 
Mrs.  Penniman,  with  a  good  deal  of  solemnity.  "  I 

9 


130  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

am  afraid  you  don't  feel  the  importance"  —  she 
paused  a  little ;  Catherine  was  looking  at  her — "  the 
importance  of  not  disappointing  that  gallant  young 
heart !"  And  Mrs.  Penniman  went  back  to  her 
chair  by  the  lamp,  and,  with  a  little  jerk,  picked  up 
the  evening  paper  again. 

Catherine  stood  there  before  the  fire,  with  her 
hands  behind  her,  looking  at  her  aunt,  to  whom  it 
seemed  that  the  girl  had  never  had  just  this  dark 
fixedness  in  her  gaze.  "  I  don't  think  you  under- 
stand or  that  you  know  me,"  she  said. 

"  If  I  don't,  it  is  not  wonderful ;  you  trust  me  so 
little." 

Catherine  made  no  attempt  to  deny  this  charge, 
and  for  some  time  more  nothing  was  said.  But  Mrs. 
Penniman's  imagination  was  restless,  and  the  evening 
paper  failed  on  this  occasion  to  enchain  it. 

"If  you  succumb  to  the  dread  of  your  father's 
wrath,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of 
us." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  to  say  these  things  to  me  ?" 

"  He  told  me  to  use  my  influence." 

"  You  must  be  mistaken,"  said  Catherine.  "  He 
trusts  me." 

"  I  hope  he  may  never  repent  of  it !"  And  Mrs. 
Penniman  gave  a  little  sharp  slap  to  her  newspaper. 
She  knew  not  what  to  make  of  her  niece,  who  had 
suddenly  become  stern  and  contradictious. 

This  tendency  on  Catherine's  part  was  presently 
even  more  apparent.  "  You  had  much  better  not 
make  any  more  appointments  with  Mr.  Townsend," 
she  said.  "  I  don't  think  it  is  right." 

Mrs.  Penniman   rose  with  considerable   majesty. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  131 

"  My  poor  child,  are  you  jealous  of  me  ?"  she  in- 
quired. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Lavinia !"  murmured  Catherine,  blush- 
ing. 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  your  place  to  teach  me  what 
is  right." 

On  this  point  Catherine  made  no  concession.  "  It 
can't  be  right  to  deceive." 

"I  certainly  have  not  deceived  you!" 

"  Yes ;  but  I  promised  my  father — 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  promised  your  father.  But 
I  have  promised  him  nothing." 

Catherine  had  to  admit  this,  and  she  did  so  in 
silence.  "  I  don't  believe  Mr.  Townsend  himself 
likes  it,"  she  said,  at  last. 

"  Doesn't  like  meeting  me  ?" 

"  Not  in  secret." 

"  It  was  not  in  secret ;  the  place  was  full  of  peo- 
ple." 

"But  it  was  a  secret  place  —  away  off  in  the 
Bowery." 

Mrs.  Penniman  flinched  a  little.  "  Gentlemen 
enjoy  such  things,"  she  remarked,  presently.  "  I 
know  what  gentlemen  like." 

"  My  father  wouldn't  like  it,  if  he  knew." 

"  Pray,  do  you  propose  to  inform  him  ?"  Mrs. 
Penniman  inquired. 

"  No,  Aunt  Lavinia.  But  please  don't  do  it 
again." 

"If  I  do  it  again  you  will  inform  him — is  that 
what  you  mean  ?  I  do  not  share  your  dread  of  my 
brother;  I  have  always  known  how  to  defend  my 
own  position.  But  I  shall  certainly  never  again 


182  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

take  any  step  on  your  behalf;  you  are  much  too 
thankless.  I  knew  you  were  not  a  spontaneous  nat- 
ure, but  I  believed  you  were  firm,  and  I  told  your 
father  that  he  would  find  you  so.  I  am  disappoint- 
ed, but  your  father  will  not  be."  And  with  this 
Mrs.  Penniman  offered  her  niece  a  brief  good-night, 
and  withdrew  to  her  own  apartment. 


XVIII. 

CATHERINE  sat  alone  by  the  parlor  fire — sat  there 
for  more  than  an  hour,  lost  in  her  meditations.  Her 
aunt  seemed  to  her  aggressive  and  foolish ;  and  to 
see  it  so  clearly — to  judge  Mrs.  Penniman  so  posi- 
tively— made  her  feel  old  and  grave.  She  did  not 
resent  the  imputation  of  weakness;  it  made  no 
impression  on  her,  for  she  had  not  the  sense  of 
weakness,  and  she  was  not  hurt  at  not  being  ap- 
preciated. She  had  an  immense  respect  for  her 
father,  and  she  felt  that  to  displease  him  would  be 
a  misdemeanor  analogous  to  an  act  of  profanity  in 
a  great  temple :  but  her  purpose  had  slowly  ripened, 
and  she  believed  that  her  prayers  had  purified  it  of 
its  violence.  The  evening  advanced,  and  the  lamp 
burnt  dim  without  her  noticing  it ;  her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  her  terrible  plan.  She  knew  her  father 
was  in  his  study — that  he  had  been  there  all  the 
evening;  from  time  to  time  she  expected  to  hear 
him  move.  She  thought  he  would  perhaps  come, 
as  he  sometimes  came,  into  the  parlor.  At  last  the 
clock  struck  eleven,  and  the  house  was  wrapped  in 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  133 

silence;  the  servants  had  gone  to  bed.  Catherine 
got  up  and  went  slowly  to  the  door  of  the  library, 
where  she  waited  a  moment,  motionless.  Then  she 
knocked,  and  then  she  waited  again.  Her  father 
had  answered  her,  but  she  had  not  the  courage  to 
turn  the  latch.  What  she  had  said  to  her  aunt  was 
true  enough — she  was  afraid  of  him ;  and  in  saying 
that  she  had  no  sense  of  weakness,  she  meant  that 
she  was  not  afraid  of  herself.  She  heard  him  move 
within,  and  he  came  and  opened  the  door  for  her. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  the  Doctor.  "  You 
are  standing  there  like  a  ghost !" 

She  went  into  the  room,  but  it  was  some  time  be- 
fore she  contrived  to  say  what  she  had  come  to  say. 
Her  father,  who  was  in  his  dressing-gown  and  slip- 
pers, had  been  busy  at  his  writing-table,  and  after 
looking  at  her  for  some  moments,  and  waiting  for 
her  to  speak,  he  went  and  seated  himself  at  his 
papers  again.  His  back  was  turned  to  her — she 
began  to  hear  the  scratching  of  his  pen.  She  re- 
mained near  the  door,  with  her  heart  thumping  be- 
neath her  bodice;  and  she  was  very  glad  that  his 
back  was  turned,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could 
more  easily  address  herself  to  this  portion  of  his 
person  than  to  his  face.  At  last  she  began,  watch- 
ing it  while  she  spoke : 

"You  told  me  that  if  I  should  have  anything 
more  to  say  about  Mr.  Townsend  you  would  be  glad 
to  listen  to  it." 

"  Exactly,  my  dear,"  said  the  Doctor,  not  turning 
round,  but  stopping  his  pen. 

Catherine  wished  it  would  go  on,  but  she  herself 
continued :  "I  thought  I  would  tell  you  that  I 


134  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

have  not  seen  him  again,  but  that  I  should  like  to 
do  so." 

"  To  bid  him  good-bye  ?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

The  girl  hesitated  a  moment.  "  He  is  not  going 
away." 

The  Doctor  wheeled  slowly  round  in  his  chair, 
with  a  smile  that  seemed  to  accuse  her  of  an 
epigram;  but  extremes  meet,  and  Catherine  had 
not  intended  one.  "It  is  not  to  bid  him  good-bye, 
then  ?"  her  father  said. 

"  No,  father,  not  that ;  at  least  not  forever.  I 
have  not  seen  him  again,  but  I  should  like  to  see 
him,"  Catherine  repeated. 

The  Doctor  slowly  rubbed  his  underlip  with  the 
feather  of  his  quill. 

"  Have  you  written  to  him  ?"  ' 

"  Yes,  four  times." 

"  You  have  not  dismissed  him,  then.  Once  would 
have  done  that." 

"  No,"  said  Catherine ;  "  I  have  asked  him — asked 
him  to  wait." 

Her  father  sat  looking  at  her,  and  she  was  afraid 
he  was  going  to  break  out  into  wrath,  his  eyes  were 
so  fine  and  cold. 

"  You  are  a  dear,  faithful  child,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"  Come  here  to  your  father."  And  he  got  up,  hold- 
ing out  his  hands  toward  her. 

The  words  were  a  surprise,  and  they  gave  her  an 
exquisite  joy.  She  went  to  him,  and  he  put  his  arm 
round  her  tenderly,  soothingly ;  and  then  he  kissed 
her.  After  this  he  said, 

"  Do  you  wish  to  make  me  very  happy  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to— but  I  am  afraid  I  can't,"  Cathe- 
rine answered. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  135 

"  You  can  if  you  will.  It  all  depends  on  your 
will." 

"  Is  it  to  give  him  up  ?"  said  Catherine. 

"  Yes,  it  is  to  give  him  up." 

And  he  held  her  still,  with  the  same  tenderness, 
looking  into  her  face  and  resting  his  eyes  on  her 
averted  eyes.  There  was  a  long  silence  ;  she  wished 
he  would  release  her. 

"  You  are  happier  than  I,  father,"  she  said,  at  last. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  are  unhappy  just  now. 
But  it  is  better  to  be  unhappy  for  three  months  and 
get  over  it,  than  for  many  years  and  never  get  over 
it." 

"  Yes,  if  that  were  so,"  said  Catherine. 

"  It  would  be  so ;  I  am  sure  of  that."  She  an- 
swered nothing,  and  he  went  on  :  "  Have  you  no 
faith  in  my  wisdom,  in  my  tenderness,  in  my  solici- 
tude for  your  future  3" 

"  Oh,  father !"  murmured  the  girl. 

"  Don't  you  suppose  that  I  know  something  of 
men — their  vices,  their  follies,  their  falsities  ?" 

She  detached  herself,  and  turned  upon  him.  "  He 
is  not  vicious — lie  is  not  false  !" 

Her  father  kept  looking  at  her  with  his  sharp, 
pure  eye.  "You  make  nothing  of  my  judgment, 
then  ?" 

"  I  can't  believe  that !" 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  believe  it,  but  to  take  it  on 
trust." 

Catherine  was  far  from  saying  to  herself  that  this 
was  an  ingenious  sophism ;  but  she  met  the  appeal 
none  the  less  squarely.  "  What  has  he  done — what 
do  you  know  ?" 


136  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

"  He  has  never  done  anything — he  is  a  selfish 
idler." 

"  Oh,  father,  don't  abuse  him !"  she  exclaimed, 
pleadingly. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  abuse  him  ;  it  would  be  a  great 
mistake.  You  may  do  as  you  choose,"  he  added, 
turning  away. 

"  I  may  see  him  again  P 

"  Just  as  you  choose." 

"  Will  you  forgive  me  2" 

"  By  no  means." 

"  It  will  only  be  for  once." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  once.  You 
must  either  give  him  up  or  continue  the  acquaint- 
ance." 

"  I  wish  to  explain — to  tell  him  to  wait." 

"  To  wait  for  what  ?" 

"  Till  you  know  him  better — till  you  consent." 

"  Don't  tell  him  any  such  nonsense  as  that.  I 
know  him  well  enough,  and  I  shall  never  consent." 

"  But  we  can  wait  a  long  time,"  said  poor  Cathe- 
rine, in  a  tone  which  was  meant  to  express  the  hum- 
blest conciliation,  but  which  had  upon  her  father's 
nerves  the  effect  of  an  iteration  not  characterized 
by  tact. 

The  Doctor  answered,  however,  quietly  enough : 
"  Of  course ;  you  can  wait  till  I  die,  if  you  like." 

Catherine  gave  a  cry  of  natural  horror. 

"  Your  engagement  will  have  one  delightful  effect 
upon  you ;  it  will  make  you  extremely  impatient  for 
that  event." 

Catherine  stood  staring,  and  the  Doctor  enjoyed 
the  point  he  had  made.  It  came  to  Catherine  with 


WASHINGTON  SQUAKE.  137 

the  force — or  rather  with  the  vague  impressiveness 
— of  a  logical  axiom  which  it  was  not  in  her  prov- 
ince to  controvert ;  and  yet,  though  it  was  a  scien- 
tific truth,  she  felt  wholly  unable  to  accept  it. 

"  I  would  rather  not  marry,  if  that  were  true," 
she  said. 

"  Give  me  a  proof  of  it,  then ;  for  it  is  beyond  a 
question  that  by  engaging  yourself  to  Morris  Towns- 
end  you  simply  wait  for  my  death." 

She  turned  away,  feeling  sick  and  faint ;  and  the 
Doctor  went  on:  "And  if  you  wait  for  it  with  im- 
patience, judge,  if  you  please,  what  his  eagerness 
will  be." 

Catherine  turned  it  over — her  father's  words  had 
such  an  authority  for  her  that  her  very  thoughts 
were  capable  of  obeying  him.  There  was  a  dread- 
ful ugliness  in  it,  which  seemed  to  glare  at  her 
through  the  interposing  medium  of  her  own  feebler 
reason.  Suddenly,  however,  she  had  an  inspiration 
— she  almost  knew  it  to  be  an  inspiration. 

"  If  I  don't  marry  before  your  death,  I  will  not 
after,"  she  said. 

To  her  father,  it  must  be  admitted,  this  seemed 
only  another  epigram ;  and  as  obstinacy,  in  unac- 
complished minds,  does  not  usually  select  such  a 
mode  of  expression,  he  was  the  more  surprised  at 
this  wanton  play  of  a  fixed  idea. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  for  an  impertinence  ?"  he  in- 
quired ;  an  inquiry  of  which,  as  he  made  it,  he  quite 
perceived  the  grossness. 

"An  impertinence?  Oh,  father,  what  terrible 
things  you  say !" 

"  If  you  don't  wait  for  my  death,  you  might  as 


138  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

well  marry  immediately;  there  is  nothing  else  to 
wait  for." 

For  some  time  Catherine  made  no  answer;  but 
finally  she  said, 

"  I  think  Morris — little  by  little — might  persuade 
you." 

"  I  shall  never  let  him  speak  to  me  again.  I  dis- 
like him  too  much." 

Catherine  gave  a  long,  low  sigh  ;  she  tried  to  stifle 
it,  for  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that  it  was  wrong 
to  make  a  parade  of  her  trouble,  and  to  endeavor  to 
act  upon  her  father  by  the  meretricious  aid  of  emo- 
tion. Indeed,  she  even  thought  it  wrong — in  the 
sense  of  being  inconsiderate — to  attempt  to  act  upon 
his  feelings  at  all;  her  part  was  to  effect  some  gen- 
tle, gradual  change  in  his  intellectual  perception  of 
poor  Morris's  character.  But  the  means  of  effecting 
such  a  change  were  at  present  shrouded  in  mystery, 
and  she  felt  miserably  helpless  and  hopeless.  She 
had  exhausted  all  arguments,  all  replies.  Her  father 
might  have  pitied  her,  and  in  fact  he  did  so ;  but  he 
was  sure  he  was  right. 

"  There  is  one  thing  you  can  tell  Mr.  Townsend 
when  you  see  him  again,"  he  said,  "that  if  you 
marry  without  my  consent,  I  don't  leave  you  a  far- 
thing of  money.  That  will  interest  him  more  than 
anything  else  you  can  tell  him." 

"  That  would  be  very  right,"  Catherine  answered. 
"  I  ought  not  in  that  case  to  have  a  farthing  of  your 
money." 

"  My  dear  child,"  the  Doctor  observed,  laughing, 
"your  simplicity  is  touching.  Make  that  remark, 
in  that  tone,  and  with  that  expression  of  counte- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  139 

nance,  to  Mr.  Townsend,  and  take  a  note  of  his  an- 
swer. It  won't  be  polite — it  will  express  irritation ; 
and  I  shall  be  glad  of  that,  as  it  will  put  me  in  the 
right;  unless, indeed — which  is  perfectly  possible — 
you  should  like  him  the  better  for  being  rude  to  you." 

"He  will  never  be  rude  to  me,"  said  Catherine, 
gently. 

"  Tell  him  what  I  say,  all  the  same." 

She  looked  at  her  father,  and  her  quiet  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"  I  think  I  will  see  him,  then,"  she  murmured,  in 
her  timid  voice. 

"  Exactly  as  you  choose."  And  he  went  to  the 
door  and  opened  it  for  her  to  go  out.  The  move- 
ment gave  her  a  terrible  sense  of  his  turning  her  off. 

"  It  will  be  only  once,  for  the  present,"  she  added, 
lingering  a  moment. 

"Exactly  as  you  choose,"  he  repeated,  standing 
there  with  his  hand  on  the  door.  "  I  have  told  you 
what  I  think.  If  you  see  him,  you  will  be  an  un- 
grateful, cruel  child ;  you  will  have  given  your  old 
father  the  greatest  pain  of  his  life." 

This  was  more  than  the  poor  girl  could  bear ;  her 
tears  overflowed,  and  she  moved  toward  her  grimly 
consistent  parent  with  a  pitiful  cry.  Her  hands 
were  raised  in  supplication,  but  he  sternly  evaded 
this  appeal.  Instead  of  letting  her  sob  out  her  mis- 
ery on  his  shoulder,  he  simply  took  her  by  the  arm 
and  directed  her  course  across  the  threshold,  closing 
the  door  gently  but  firmly  behind  her.  After  he 
had  done  so,  he  remained  listening.  For  a  long  time 
there  was  no  sound ;  he  knew  that  she  was  standing 
outside.  He  was  sorry  for  her,  as  I  have  said;  but 


140  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

he  was  so  sure  he  was  right.  At  last  he  heard  her 
move  away,  and  then  her  footstep  creaked  faintly 
upon  the  stairs. 

The  Doctor  took  several  turns  round  his  study, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  a  thin  sparkle, 
possibly  of  irritation,  but  partly  also  of  something 
like  humor,  in  his  eye.  "  By  Jove,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "  I  believe  she  will  stick — I  believe  she  will 
stick !"  And  this  idea  of  Catherine  "  sticking  "  ap- 
peared to  have  a  comical  side,  and  to  offer  a  prospect 
of  entertainment.  He  determined,  as  he  said  to 
himself,  to  see  it  out. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 


141 


XIX. 


IT  was  for  reasons  connected  with  this  determina- 
tion that  on  the  morrow  he  sought  a  few  words  of 
private  conversation  with  Mrs.  Penniman.  He  sent 
for  her  to  the  library,  and  he  there  informed  her 
that  he  hoped  very  much  that,  as  regarded  this  af- 
fair of  Catherine's,  she  would  mind  her  p*s  and  q's. 


142  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  such  an  expres- 
sion," said  his  sister.  "You  speak  as  if  I  were 
learning  the  alphabet." 

"  The  alphabet  of  common-sense  is  something  you 
will  never  learn,"  the  Doctor  permitted  himself  to 
respond. 

"  Have  you  called  me  here  to  insult  me  ?"  Mrs. 
Penniman  inquired. 

"  Not  at  all.  Simply  to  advise  you.  You  have 
taken  up  young  Townsend ;  that's  your  own  affair. 
I  have  nothing  to  do  with  your  sentiments,  your 
fancies,  your  affections,  your  delusions  ;  but  what  I 
request  of  you  is  that  you  will  keep  these  things  to 
yourself.  I  have  explained  my  views  to  Catherine ; 
she  understands  them  perfectly,  and  anything  that 
she  does  further  in  the  way  of  encouraging  Mr. 
Townsend's  attentions  will  be  in  deliberate  opposi- 
tion to  my  wishes.  Anything  that  you  should  do 
in  the  way  of  giving  her  aid  and  comfort  will  be — 
permit  me  the  expression  —  distinctly  treasonable. 
You  know  high -treason  is  a  capital  offence:  take 
care  how  you  incur  the  penalty." 

Mrs.  Penniman  threw  back  her  head,  with  a  cer- 
tain  expansion  of  the  eye  which  she  occasionally 
practiced.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  you  talk  like  a 
great  autocrat." 

"  I  talk  like  my  daughter's  father." 

"  Not  like  your  sister's  brother,"  cried  Lavinia. 

"  My  dear  Lavinia,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  some- 
times wonder  whether  I  am  your  brother,  we  are 
so  extremely  different.  In  spite  of  differences,  how- 
ever, we  can,  at  a  pinch,  understand  each  other ;  and 
that  is  the  essential  thing  just  now.  Walk  straight 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  143 

with  regard  to  Mr.  Townsend ;  that's  all  I  ask.  It 
is  highly  probable  you  have  been  corresponding 
with  him  for  the  last  three  weeks — perhaps  even 
seeing  him.  I  don't  ask  you — you  needn't  tell  rne." 
He  had  a  moral  conviction  that  she  would  contrive 
to  tell  a  fib  about  the  matter,  which  it  would  disgust 
him  to  listen  to.  "  Whatever  you  have  done,  stop 
doing  it ;  that's  all  I  wish." 

"  Don't  you  wish  also  by  chance  to  murder  your 
child  ?"  Mrs.  Penniman  inquired. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  wish  to  make  her  live  and  be 
happy." 

"  You  will  kill  her  :  she  passed  a  dreadful  night." 

"  She  won't  die  of  one  dreadful  night,  nor  of  a 
dozen.  Remember  that  I  am  a  distinguished  phy- 
sician." 

Mrs.  Penniman  hesitated  a  moment;  then  she 
risked  her  retort.  "  Your  being  a  distinguished 
physician  has  not  prevented  you  from  already  los- 
ing two  members  of  your  family." 

She  had  risked  it,  but  her  brother  gave  her  such 
a  terribly  incisive  look — a  look  so  like  a  surgeon's 
lancet — that  she  was  frightened  at  her  courage. 
And  he  answered  her,  in  words  that  corresponded 
to  the  look,  "  It  may  not  prevent  me,  either,  from 
losing  the  society  of  still  another." 

Mrs.  Penniman  took  herself  off  with  whatever  air 
of  depreciated  merit  was  at  her  command,  and  re- 
paired to  Catherine's  room,  where  the  poor  girl  was 
closeted.  She  knew  all  about  her  dreadful  night, 
for  the  two  had  met  again,  the  evening  before,  after 
Catherine  left  her  father.  Mrs.  Penniman  was  on 
the  landing  of  the  second  floor  when  her  niece  came 


144  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

up-stairs ;  it  was  not  remarkable  that  a  person  of  so 
much  subtlety  should  have  discovered  that  Cathe- 
rine had  been  shut  up  with  the  Doctor.  It  was  still 
less  remarkable  that  she  should  have  felt  an  extreme 
curiosity  to  learn  the  result  of  this  interview,  and 
that  this  sentiment,  combined  with  her  great  amia- 
bility and  generosity,  should  have  prompted  her  to 
regret  the  sharp  words  lately  exchanged  between 
her  niece  and  herself.  As  the  unhappy  girl  came 
into  sight  in  the  dusky  corridor,  she  made  a  lively 
demonstration  of  sympathy.  Catherine's  bursting 
heart  was  equally  oblivious ;  she  only  knew  that  her 
aunt  was  taking  her  into  her  arms.  Mrs.  Penniman 
drew  her  into  Catherine's  own  room,  and  the  two 
women  sat  there  together  far  into  the  small  hours, 
the  younger  one  with  her  head  on  the  other's  lap, 
sobbing,  and  sobbing  at  first  in  a  soundless,  stifled 
manner,  and  then  at  last  perfectly  still.  It  gratified 
Mrs.  Penniman  to  be  able  to  feel  conscientiously 
that  this  scene  virtually  removed  the  interdict  which 
Catherine  had  placed  upon  her  indulging  in  fur- 
ther communion  with  Morris  Townsend.  She  was 
not  gratified,  however,  when,  in  coming  back  to  her 
niece's  room  before  breakfast,  she  found  that  Cathe- 
rine had  risen  and  was  preparing  herself  for  this  meal. 

"  You  should  not  go  to  breakfast,"  she  said ;  "  you 
are  not  well  enough,  after  your  fearful  night." 

"Yes,  I  am  very  well,  and  I  am  only  afraid  of 
being  late." 

"  I  can't  understand  you,"  Mrs.  Penniman  cried. 
"  You  should  stay  in  bed  for  three  days." 

"  Oh,  I  could  never  do  that,"  said  Catherine,  to 
whom  this  idea  presented  no  attractions. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  145 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  in  despair ;  and  she  noted, 
with  extreme  annoyance,  that  the  trace  of  the  night's 
tears  had  completely  vanished  from  Catherine's  eyes. 
She  had  a  most  impracticable  physique.  "  What  ef- 
fect do  you  expect  to  have  upon  your  father,"  her 
aunt  demanded,  "if  you  come  plumping  down,  with- 
out a  vestige  of  any  sort  of  feeling,  as  if  nothing  in 
the  world  had  happened  ?" 

"  He  would  not  like  me  to  lie  in  bed,"  said  Cathe- 
rine, simply. 

"All  the  more  reason  for  your  doing  it.  How 
else  do  you  expect  to  move  him  ?" 

Catherine  thought  a  little.  "I  don't  know  how; 
but  not  in  that  way.  I  wish  to  be  just  as  usual." 
And  she  finished  dressing  —  and,  according  to  her 
aunt's  expression,  went  plumping  down  into  the  pa- 
ternal presence.  She  was  really  too  modest  for  con- 
sistent pathos. 

And  yet  it  was  perfectly  true  that  she  had  had  a 
dreadful  night.  Even  after  Mrs.  Penniman  left  her 
she  had  had  no  sleep  ;  she  lay  staring  at  the  uncom- 
forting  gloom,  with  her  eyes  and  ears  filled  with  the 
movement  with  which  her  father  had  turned  her  out 
of  his  room,  and  of  the  words  in  which  he  had  told 
her  that  she  was  a  heartless  daughter.  Her  heart 
was  breaking;  she  had  heart  enough  for  that.  At 
moments  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  believed  him,  and 
that  to  do  what  she  was  doing  a  girl  must  indeed  be 
bad.  She  was  bad ;  but  she  couldn't  help  it.  She 
would  try  to  appear  good,  even  if  her  heart  were 
perverted ;  and  from  time  to  time  she  had  a  fancy 
that  she  mjght  accomplish  something  by  ingenious 
concessions  to  form,  though  she  should  persist  in 

10 


146  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

caring  for  Morris.  Catherine's  ingenuities  were  in- 
definite, and  we  are  not  called  upon  to  expose  their 
hollowness.  The  best  of  them,  perhaps,  showed 
itself  in  that  freshness  of  aspect  which  was  so  dis- 
couraging to  Mrs.  Penniman,  who  was  amazed  at  the 
absence  of  haggardness  in  a  young  woman  who  for 
a  whole  night  had  lain  quivering  beneath  a  father's 
curse.  Poor  Catherine  was  conscious  of  her  fresh- 
ness; it  gave  her  a  feeling  about  the  future  which 
rather  added  to  the  weight  upon  her  mind.  It 
seemed  a  proof  that  she  was  strong  and  solid  and 
dense,  and  would  live  to  a  great  age — longer  than 
might  be  generally  convenient ;  and  this  idea  was 
pressing,  for  it  appeared  to  saddle  her  with  a  pre- 
tension the  more,  just  when  the  cultivation  of  any 
pretension  was  inconsistent  with  her  doing  right. 
She  wrote  that  day  to  Morris  Townsend,  requesting 
him  to  come  and  see  her  on  the  morrow,  using  very 
few  words,  and  explaining  nothing.  She  would  ex- 
plain everything  face  to  face. 


XX. 

ON  the  morrow,  in  the  afternoon,  she  heard  his 
voice  at  the  door,  and  his  step  in  the  hall.  She  re- 
ceived him  in  the  big,  bright  front -parlor,  and  she 
instructed  the  servant  that,  if  any  one  should  call,  she 
was  particularly  engaged.  She  was  not  afraid  of  her 
father's  coming  in,  for  at  that  hour  he  was  always 
driving  about  town.  When  Morris  stood  there  be- 
fore her,  the  first  thing  that  she  was  conscious  of  was 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  147 

that  he  was  even  more  beautiful  to  look  at  than  fond 
recollection  had  painted  him;  the  next  was  that  he 
had  pressed  her  in  his  arms.  When  she  was  free 
again  it  appeared  to  her  that  she  had  now  indeed 
thrown  herself  into  the  gulf  of  defiance,  and  even, 
for  an  instant,  that  she  had  been  married  to  him. 

He  told  her  that  she  had  been  very  cruel,  and  had 
made  him  very  unhappy ;  and  Catherine  felt  acute- 
ly the  difficulty  of  her  destiny,  which  forced  her  to 
give  pain  in  such  opposite  quarters.  But  she  wish- 
ed that,  instead  of  reproaches,  however  tender,  he 
would  give  her  help  ;  he  was  certainly  wise  enough 
and  clever  enough  to  invent  some  issue  from  their 
troubles.  She  expressed  this  belief,  and  Morris  re- 
ceived the  assurance  as  if  he  thought  it  natiiral ;  but 
he  interrogated  at  first — as  was  natural  too — rather 
than  committed  himself  to  marking  out  a  course. 

"  You  should  not  have  made  me  wait  so  long,"  he 
said.  "  I  don't  know  how  I  have  been  living ;  every 
hour  seemed  like  years.  You  should  have  decided 
sooner." 

"  Decided  ?"  Catherine  asked. 

"Decided  whether  you  would  keep  me  or  give 
me  up." 

"  Oh,  Morris,"  she  cried,  with  a  long,  tender  mur- 
mur, "  I  never  thought  of  giving  you  up  !" 

"  What,  then,  were  you  waiting  for  ?"  The  young 
man  was  ardently  logical. 

"  I  thought  my  father  might — might — "  and  she 
hesitated. 

"  Might  see  how  unhappy  you  were  ?" 

"Oh  no.  But  that  he  might  look  at  it  differ- 
ently." 


148  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

"And  now  you  have  sent  for  me  to  tell  me  that 
at  last  he  does  so.  Is  that  it  ?" 

This  hypothetical  optimism  gave  the  poor  girl  a 
pang.  "  No,  Morris,"  she  said,  solemnly,  "  he  looks 
at  it  still  in  the  same  way." 

"  Then  why  have  you  sent  for  me  ?" 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  cried  Catherine, 
piteously. 

"  That's  an  excellent  reason,  surely.  But  did  you 
want  to  look  at  me  only  ?  Have  you  nothing  to  tell 
me?" 

His  beautiful  persuasive  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her 
face,  and  she  wondered  what  answer  would  be  noble 
enough  to  make  to  such  a  gaze  as  that.  For  a  mo- 
ment her  own  eyes  took  it  in,  and  then — "  I  did 
want  to  look  at  you,"  she  said,  gently.  But  after 
this  speech,  most  inconsistently,  she  hid  her  face. 

Morris  watched  her  for  a  moment  attentively. 
"  Will  you  marry  me  to-morrow  ?"  he  asked,  sud- 
denly. 

"  To-morrow  ?" 

"  Next  week,  then — any  time  within  a  month  ?" 

"  Isn't  it  better  to  wait  ?"  said  Catherine. 

"  To  wait  for  what  ?" 

She  hardly  knew  for  what ;  but  this  tremendous 
leap  alarmed  her.  "  Till  we  have  thought  about  it 
a  little  more." 

He  shook  his  head  sadly  and  reproachfully.  "I 
thought  you  had  been  thinking  about  it  these  three 
weeks.  Do  you  want  to  turn  it  over  in  your  mind 
for  five  years  ?  You  have  given  me  more  than  time 
enough.  My  poor  girl,"  he  added,  in  a  moment, 
"  you  are  not  sincere." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  149 

Catherine  colored  from  brow  to  chin,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  Oh,  how  can  you  say  that  ?" 
she  murmured. 

"  Why,  you  must  take  me  or  leave  me,"  said  Mor- 
ris, very  reasonably.  "  You  can't  please  your  father 
and  me  both ;  you  must  choose  between  us." 

"  I  have  chosen  you,"  she  said,  passionately. 

"  Then  marry  me  next  week !" 

She  stood  gazing  at  him.  "  Isn't  there  any  other 
way  ?" 

"  None  that  I  know  of  for  arriving  at  the  same 
result.  If  there  is,  I  should  be  happy  to  hear  of  it." 

Catherine  could  think  of  nothing  of  the  kind,  and 
Morris's  luminosity  seemed  almost  pitiless.  The 
only  thing  she  could  think  of  was  that  her  father 
might,  after  all,  come  round ;  and  she  articulated, 
with  an  awkward  sense  of  her  helplessness  in  doing 
so,  a  wish  that  this  miracle  might  happen. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  in  the  least  degree  likely  ?" 
Morris  asked. 

"  It  would  be,  if  he  could  only  know  you." 

"He  can  know  me  if  he  will.  What  is  to  pre- 
vent it  ?" 

"  His  ideas,  his  reasons,"  said  Catherine.  "  They 
are  so — so  terribly  strong."  She  trembled  with  the 
recollection  of  them  yet. 

"Strong!"  cried  Morris.  "I  would  rather  you 
should  think  them  weak." 

"  Oh,  nothing  about  my  father  is  weak,"  said  the 
girl. 

Morris  turned  away,  walking  to  the  window,  where 
he  stood  looking  out.  "  You  are  terribly  afraid  of 
him,"  he  remarked  at  last. 


150  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

She  felt  no  impulse  to  deny  it,  because  she  had  no 
shame  in  it ;  for,  if  it  was  no  honor  to  herself,  at 
least  it  was  an  honor  to  him.  "I  suppose  I  must 
be,"  she  said,  simply. 

"  Then  you  don't  love  me — not  as  I  love  you.  If 
you  fear  your  father  more  than  you  love  me,  then 
your  love  is  not  what  I  hoped  it  was." 

"  Ah,  my  friend  !"  she  said,  going  to  him, 

"  Do  /  fear  anything  ?"  he  demanded,  turning 
round  on  her.  "  For  your  sake  what  am  I  not  ready 
to  face  ?" 

"  You  are  noble — you  are  brave !"  she  answered, 
stopping  short  at  a  distance  that  was  almost  re- 
spectful. 

"  Small  good  it  does  rne,  if  you  are  so  timid." 

"  I  don't  think  I  am — really"  said  Catherine. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  '  really.'  It  is 
really  enough  to  make  us  miserable." 

"I  should  be  strong  enough  to  wait  —  to  wait  a 
long  time." 

"  And  suppose  after  a  long  time  your  father  should 
hate  me  worse  than  ever  ?" 

"  He  wouldn't— he  couldn't." 

"  He  would  be  touched  by  my  fidelity ;  is  that 
what  you  mean?  If  he  is  so  easily  touched,  then 
why  should  you  be  afraid  of  him  ?" 

This  was  much  to  the  point,  and  Catherine  was 
struck  by  it.  "I  will  try  not  to  be,"  she  said. 
And  she  stood  there  submissively,  the  image,  in  ad- 
vance, of  a  dutiful  and  responsible  wife.  This  image 
could  not  fail  to  recommend  itself  to  Morris  Towns- 
end,  and  he  continued  to  give  proof  of  the  high  es- 
timation in  which  he  held  her.  It  could  only  have 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  151 

been  at  the  prompting  of  such  a  sentiment  that  he 
presently  mentioned  to  her  that  the  course  recom- 
mended by  Mrs.  Penniman  was  an  immediate  union, 
regardless  of  consequences. 

"Yes,  Aunt  Penniman  would  like  that,"  Cathe- 
rine said,  simply,  and  yet  with  a  certain  shrewdness. 
It  must,  however,  have  been  in  pure  simplicity,  and 
from  motives  quite  untouched  by  sarcasm,  that  a 
few  moments  after  she  went  on  to  say  to  Morris 
that  her  father  had  given  her  a  message  for  him.  It 

o  o 

was  quite  on  her  conscience  to  deliver  this  message, 
and  had  the  mission  been  ten  times  more  painful, 
she  would  have  as  scrupulously  performed  it.  "  He 
told  me  to  tell  you — to  tell  you  very  distinctly,  and 
directly  from  himself — that  if  I  marry  without  his 
consent,  I  shall  not  inherit  a  penny  of  his  fortune. 
He  made  a  great  point  of  this.  He  seemed  to  think 
— he  seemed  to  think — 

Morris  flushed,  as  any  young  man  of  spirit  might 
have  flushed  at  an  imputation  of  baseness.  "  What 
did  he  seem  to  think  ?" 

"  That  it  would  make  a  difference." 

"  It  will  make  a  difference — in  many  things.  We 
shall  be  by  many  thousands  of  dollars  the  poorer ; 
and  that  is  a  great  difference.  But  it  will  make 
none  in  my  affection." 

"  We  shall  not  want  the  money,"  said  Catherine  ; 
"  for  you  know  I  have  a  good  deal  myself." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  girl,  I  know  you  have  something. 
And  he  can't  touch  that." 

"  He  would  never,"  said  Catherine.  "  My  mother 
left  it  to  me." 

Morris  was  silent  awhile.     "He  was  very  positive 


152  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

about  this,  was  he  ?"  he  asked  at  last.  "  He  thought 
such  a  message  would  annoy  me  terribly,  and  make 
me  throw  off  the  mask,  eh  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  thought,"  said  Catherine, 
sadly. 

"Please  tell  him  that  I  care  for  his  message  as 
much  as  for  that !"  and  Morris  snapped  his  fingers 
sonorously. 

"I  don't  think  I  could  tell  him  that." 

"  Do  you  know  you  sometimes  disappoint  me," 
said  Morris. 

"  I  should  think  I  might.  I  disappoint  every  one 
— father  and  Aunt  Penniman." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  matter  with  me,  because  I  arn 
fonder  of  you  than  they  are." 

"  Yes,  Morris,"  said  the  girl,  with  her  imagination 
— what  there  was  of  it — swimming  in  this  happy 
truth,  which  seemed,  after  all,  invidious  to  no  one. 

"  Is  it  your  belief  that  he  will  stick  to  it — stick  to 
it  forever — to  this  idea  of  disinheriting  you  ? — that 
your  goodness  and  patience  will  never  wear  out  his 
cruelty  ?" 

"  The  trouble  is  that  if  I  marry  you  he  will  think 
I  am  not  good.  He  will  think  that  a  proof." 

"  Ah,  then  he  will  never  forgive  you !" 

This  idea,  sharply  expressed  by  Morris's  hand- 
some lips,  renewed  for  a  moment  to  the  poor  girl's 
temporarily  pacified  conscience  all  its  dreadful  viv- 
idness. "Oh,  you  must  love  me  very  much!"  she 
cried. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  that,  my  dear,"  her  lover 
rejoined.  "  You  don't  like  that  word  '  disinherit- 
ed,' "  he  added,  in  a  moment. 


"  MY    DEAR    GOOD    GIRL  !"    HE    EXCLAIMED,  LOOKING    DOWN    AT    HIS    PRIZE. 
AND    THEN    HE    LOOKED    UP    AGAIN,    RATHER    VAGUELY. 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  155 

"  It  isn't  the  money ;  it  is  that  he  should — that  he 
should  feel  so." 

"  I  suppose  it  seems  to  you  a  kind  of  curse  ?"  said 
Morris.  "  It  must  be  very  dismal.  But  don't  you 
think,"  he  went  on,  presently,  "  that  if  you  were 
to  try  to  be  very  clever,  and  to  set  rightly  about  it, 
you  might  in  the  end  conjure  it  away  ?  Don't  you 
think,"  he  continued  further,  in  a  tone  of  sympa- 
thetic speculation,  "  that  a  really  clever  woman,  in 
your  place,  might  bring  him  round  at  last  ?  Don't 
you  think — " 

Here,  suddenly,  Morris  was  interrupted ;  these  in- 
genious inquiries  had  not  reached  Catherine's  ears. 
The  terrible  word  disinheritance,  with  all  its  im- 
pressive moral  reprobation,  was  still  ringing  there — 
seemed,  indeed,  to  gather  force  as  it  lingered.  The 
mortal  chill  of  her  situation  struck  more  deeply  into 
her  childlike  heart,  and  she  was  overwhelmed  by  a 
feeling  of  loneliness  and  danger.  But  her  refuge 
was  there,  close  to  her,  and  she  put  out  her  hands  to 
grasp  it.  "  Ah,  Morris,"  she  said,  with  a  shudder, 
"  I  will  marry  you  as  soon  as  you  please !"  and  she 
surrendered  herself,  leaning  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"  My  dear  good  girl !"  he  exclaimed,  looking  down 
at  his  prize.  And  then  he  looked  up  again,  rather 
vaguely,  with  parted  lips  and  lifted  eyebrows. 


156  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 


XXI. 

DOCTOR  SLOPER  very  soon  imparted  his  conviction 
to  Mrs.  Almond  in  the  same  terms  in  which  he  had 
announced  it  to  himself.  "  She's  going  to  stick,  by 
Jove !  she's  going  to  stick." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  she  is  going  to  marry  him  I" 
Mrs.  Almond  inquired. 

"  I  don't  know  that ;  but  she  is  not  going  to  break 
down.  She  is  going  to  drag  out  the  engagement,  in 
the  hope  of  making  me  relent." 

"  And  shall  you  not  relent  ?" 

"  Shall  a  geometrical  proposition  relent  ?  I  am 
not  so  superficial." 

"  Doesn't  geometry  treat  of  surfaces  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Almond,  who,  as  we  know,  was  clever,  smiling. 

"  Yes,  but  it  treats  of  them  profoundly.  Cathe- 
rine and  her  young  man  are  my  surfaces;  I  have 
taken  their  measure." 

"  You  speak  as  if  it  surprised  you." 

"  It  is  immense ;  there  will  be  a  great  deal  to  ob- 
serve." 

"  You  are  shockingly  cold  -  blooded !"  said  Mrs. 
Almond. 

"  I  need  to  be,  with  all  this  hot  blood  about  me. 
Young  Townsend,  indeed,  is  cool ;  I  must  allow  him 
that  merit." 

"  I  can't  judge  him,"  Mrs.  Almond  answered ; 
"  but  I  am  not  at  all  surprised  at  Catherine." 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  157 

"  I  confess  I  am  a  little ;  she  must  have  been  so 
deucedly  divided  and  bothered." 

"  Say  it  amuses  you  outright.  I  don't  see  why  it 
should  be  such  a  joke  that  your  daughter  adores 
you." 

"  It  is  the  point  where  the  adoration  stops  that  I 
find  it  interesting  to  fix." 

"  It  stops  where  the  other  sentiment  begins." 

"  Not  at  all ;  that  would  be  simple  enough.  The 
two  things  are  extremely  mixed  up,  and  the  mixture 
is  extremely  odd.  It  will  produce  some  third  ele- 
ment, and  that's  what  I'm  waiting  to  see.  I  wait 
with  suspense — with  positive  excitement ;  and  that 
is  a  sort  of  emotion  that  I  didn't  suppose  Catherine 
would  ever  provide  for  me.  I  am  really  very  much 
obliged  to  her." 

"  She  will  cling,"  said  Mrs.  Almond  ;  "  she  will 
certainly  cling." 

"  Yes,  as  I  say,  she  will  stick." 

"  Cling  is  prettier.  That's  what  those  very  sim- 
ple natures  always  do,  and  nothing  could  be  sim- 
pler than  Catherine.  She  doesn't  take  many  impres- 
sions ;  but  when  she  takes  one,  she  keeps  it.  She  is 
like  a  copper  kettle  that  receives  a  dent :  you  may 
polish  up  the  kettle,  but  you  can't  efface  the  mark." 

"  We  must  try  and  polish  up  Catherine,"  said  the 
Doctor.  "  I  will  take  her  to  Europe  !" 

"  She  won't  forget  him  in  Europe." 

"  He  will  forget  her,  then." 

Mrs.  Almond  looked  grave.  "  Should  you  really 
like  that?" 

"  Extremely,"  said  the  Doctor. 

Mrs.  Penniman,  meanwhile,  lost  little  time  in  put- 


158  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

ting  herself  again  in  communication  with  Morris 
Townsend.  She  requested  him  to  favor  her  with 
another  interview,  but  she  did  not  on  this  occasion 
select  an  oyster  saloon  as  the  scene  of  their  meeting. 
She  proposed  that  he  should  join  her  at  the  door  of 
a  certain  church  after  service  on  Sunday  afternoon ; 
and  she  was  careful  not  to  appoint  the  place  of  wor- 
ship which  she  usually  visited,  and  where,  as  she 
said,  the  congregation  would  have  spied  upon  her. 
She  picked  out  a  less  elegant  resort,  and  on  issuing 
from  its  portal  at  the  hour  she  had  fixed  she  saw  the 
young  man  standing  apart.  She  offered  him  no  rec- 
ognition until  she  had  crossed  the  street,  and  he  had 
followed  her  to  some  distance.  Here,  with  a  smile, 
"  Excuse  my  apparent  want  of  cordiality,"  she  said. 
"  You  know  what  to  believe  about  that.  Prudence 
before  everything."  And  on  his  asking  her  in  what 
direction  they  should  walk, "  Where  we  shall  be  least 
observed,"  she  murmured. 

Morris  was  not  in  high  good -humor,  and  his  re- 
sponse to  this  speech  was  not  particularly  gallant. 
"  I  don't  flatter  myself  we  shall  be  much  observed 
anywhere."  Then  he  turned  recklessly  toward  the 
centre  of  the  town.  "I  hope  you  have  come  to  tell 
me  that  he  has  knocked  under,"  he  went  on. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  altogether  a  harbinger  of 
good ;  and  yet,  too,  I  am  to  a  certain  extent  a  mes- 
senger of  peace.  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal, 
Mr.  Townsend,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman. 

"  You  think  too  much." 

"  I  suppose  I  do  ;  but  I  can't  help  it,  my  mind  is 
so  terribly  active.  When  I  give  myself,  I  give  my- 
self. I  pay  the  penalty  in  my  headaches,  my  fa- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  159 

mous  headaches — a  perfect  circlet  of  pain  !  But  I 
carry  it  as  a  queen  carries  her  crown.  Would  you 
believe  that  I  have  one  now  ?  I  wouldn't,  however, 
have  missed  our  rendezvous  for  anything.  I  have 
something  very  important  to  tell  you." 

"  Well,  let's  have  it,"  said  Morris. 

"  I  was  perhaps  a  little  headlong  the  other  day  in 
advising  you  to  marry  immediately.  I  have  been 
thinking  it  over,  and  now  I  see  it  just  a  little  differ- 
ently." 

"You  seem  to  have  a  great  many  different  ways 
of  seeing  the  same  object." 

"  Their  number  is  infinite !"  said  Mrs.  Penniman, 
in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  suggest  that  this  conven- 
ient faculty  was  one  of  her  brightest  attributes. 

"  I  recommend  you  to  take  one  way,  and  stick  to 
it,"  Morris  replied. 

"  Ah,  but  it  isn't  easy  to  choose.  My  imagina- 
tion is  never  quiet,  never  satisfied.  It  makes  me  a 
bad  adviser,  perhaps,  but  it  makes  me  a  capital 
friend." 

"A  capital  friend  who  gives  bad  advice!"  said 
Morris. 

"  Not  intentionally — and  who  hurries  off,  at  every 
risk,  to  make  the  most  humble  excuses." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  advise  me  now  ?" 

"  To  be  very  patient ;  to  watch  and  wait." 

"And  is  that  bad  advice  or  good  ?" 

"  That  is  not  for  me  to  say,"  Mrs.  Penniman  re- 
joined, with  some  dignity.  "  I  only  claim  it  is  sin- 
cere.^ 

"  And  will  you  come  to  me  next  week  and  recom- 
mend something  different  and  equally  sincere?" 


160  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

"  I  may  come  to  you  next  week,  and  tell  you  that 
I  am  in  the  streets." 

"  In  the  streets  ?" 

"  I  have  had  a  terrible  scene  with  my  brother, 
and  he  threatens,  if  anything  happens,  to  turn  me 
out  of  the  house.  You  know  I  am  a  poor  woman." 

Morris  had  a  speculative  idea  that  she  had  a  little 
property ;  but  he  naturally  did  not  press  this. 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  see  you  suffer  martyr- 
dom for  me,"  he  said.  "  But  you  make  your  broth- 
er out  a  regular  Turk." 

Mrs.  Penniman  hesitated  a  little. 

"  I  certainly  do  not  regard  Austin  as  an  orthodox 
Christian." 

"  And  am  I  to  wait  till  he  is  converted  ?" 

"  Wait  at  any  rate  till  he  is  less  violent.  Bide  your 
time,  Mr.  Townsend ;  remember  the  prize  is  great." 

Morris  walked  along  some  time  in  silence,  tap- 
ping the  railings  and  gate-posts  very  sharply  with 
his  stick. 

"  You  certainly  are  devilish  inconsistent !"  he 
broke  out  at  last.  "I  have  already  got  Catherine 
to  consent  to  a  private  marriage." 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  indeed  inconsistent,  for  at 
this  news  she  gave  a  little  jump  of  gratification. 

"  Oh,  when  and  where  ?"  she  cried.  And  then 
she  stopped  short. 

Morris  was  a  little  vague  about  this. 

"  That  isn't  fixed ;  but  she  consents.  It's  deuced 
awkward  now  to  back  out." 

Mrs.  Penniman,  as  I  say,  had  stopped  short ;  and 
she  stood  there  with  her  eyes  fixed  brilliantly  on  her 
companion. 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  161 

"  Mr.  Townsend,"  she  proceeded, "  shall  I  tell  you 
something.  Catherine  loves  you  so  much  that  you 
may  do  anything." 

This  declaration  was  slightly  ambiguous,  and  Mor- 
ris opened  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  happy  to  hear  it.  But  what  do  you  mean 
by  <  anything «' " 

"You  may  postpone — you  may  change  about; 
she  won't  think  the  worse  of  you." 

Morris  stood  there  still,  with  his  raised  eyebrows ; 
then  he  said,  simply  and  rather  dryly,  "Ah!"  Af- 
ter this  he  remarked  to  Mrs.  Penniman  that  if  she 
walked  so  slowly  she  would  attract  notice,  and  he 
succeeded,  after  a  fashion,  in  hurrying  her  back  to 
the  domicile  of  which  her  tenure  had  become  so  in- 
secure. 


XXII. 

HE  had  slightly  misrepresented  the  matter  in  say- 
ing that  Catherine  had  consented  to  take  the  great 
step.  We  left  her  just  now  declaring  that  she 
would  burn  her  ships  behind  her ;  but  Morris,  after 
having  elicited  this  declaration,  had  become  con- 
scious of  good  reasons  for  not  taking  it  up.  He 
avoided,  gracefully  enough,  fixing  a  day,  though  he 
left  her  under  the  impression  that  he  had  his  eye  on 
one.  Catherine  may  have  had  her  difficulties;  but 
those  of  her  circumspect  suitor  are  also  worthy  of 
consideration.  The  prize  was  certainly  great ;  but 
it  was  only  to  be  won  by  striking  the  happy  mean 
between  precipitancy  and  caution.  It  would  be  all 

11 


162  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

very  well  to  take  one's  jump  and  trust  to  Provi- 
dence ;  Providence  was  more  especially  on  the  side 
of  clever  people,  and  clever  people  were  known  by 
an  indisposition  to  risk  their  bones. 

The  ultimate  reward  of  a  union  with  a  young 
woman  who  was  both  unattractive  and  impoverished 
ought  to  be  connected  with  immediate  disadvantages 
by  some  very  palpable  chain.  Between  the  fear  of 
losing  Catherine  and  her  possible  fortune  altogether, 
and  the  fear  of  taking  her  too  soon  and  finding  this 
possible  fortune  as  void  of  actuality  as  a  collection 
of  emptied  bottles,  it  was  not  comfortable  for  Morris 
Townsend  to  choose — a  fact  that  should  be  remem- 
bered by  readers  disposed  to  judge  harshly  of  a 
young  man  who  may  have  struck  them  as  making 
but  an  indifferently  successful  use  of  fine  natural 
parts.  He  had  not  forgotten  that  in  any  event 
Catherine  had  her  own  ten  thousand  a  year ;  he  had 
devoted  an  abundance  of  meditation  to  this  circum- 
stance. But  with  his  fine  parts  he  rated  himself 
high,  and  he  had  a  perfectly  definite  appreciation  of 
his  value,  which  seemed  to  him  inadequately  repre- 
sented by  the  sum  I  have  mentioned.  At  the  same 
time  he  reminded  himself  that  this  sum  was  consid- 
erable, that  everything  is  relative,  and  that  if  a  mod- 
est income  is  less  desirable  than  a  large  one,  the 
complete  absence  of  revenue  is  nowhere  accounted 
an  advantage. 

These  reflections  gave  him  plenty  of  occupation, 
and  made  it  necessary  that  he  should  trim  his  sail. 
Doctor  Sloper's  opposition  was  the  unknown  quan- 
tity in  the  problem  he  had  to  work  out.  The  nat- 
ural way  to  work  it  out  was  by  marrying  Catherine ; 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  163 

but  in  mathematics  there  are  many  short  cuts,  and 
Morris  was  not  without  a  hope  that  he  should  yet 
discover  one.  When  Catherine  took  him  at  his 
word,  and  consented  to  renounce  the  attempt  to 
mollify  her  father,  he  drew  back  skilfully  enough, 
as  I  have  said,  and  kept  the  wedding-day  still  an 
open  question.  Her  faith  in  his  sincerity  was  so 
complete  that  she  was  incapable  of  suspecting  that 
he  was  playing  with  her ;  her  trouble  just  now  was 
of  another  kind.  The  poor  girl  had  an  admirable 
sense  of  honor,  and  from  the  moment  she  had 
brought  herself  to  the  point  of  violating  her  father's 
wish,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  no  right  to  enjoy 
his  protection.  It  was  on  her  conscience  that  she 
ought  to  live  under  his  roof  only  so  long  as  she 
conformed  to  his  wisdom.  There  was  a  great  deal 
of  glory  in  such  a  position,  but  poor  Catherine  felt 
that  she  had  forfeited  her  claim  to  it.  She  had  cast 
her  lot  with  a  young  man  against  whom  he  had  sol- 
emnly warned  her,  and  broken  the  contract  under 
which  he  provided  her  with  a  happy  home.  She 
could  not  give  up  the  young  man,  so  she  must  leave 
the  home ;  and  the  sooner  the  object  of  her  prefer- 
ence offered  her  another,  the  sooner  her  situation 
would  lose  its  awkward  twist.  This  was  close  rea- 
soning; but  it  was  commingled  with  an  infinite 
amount  of  merely  instinctive  penitence.  Cathe- 
rine's days,  at  this  time,  were  dismal,  and  the  weight 
of  some  of  her  hours  was  almost  more  than  she  could 
bear.  Her  father  never  looked  at  her,  never  spoke 
to  her.  He  knew  perfectly  what  he  was  about,  and 
this  was  part  of  a  plan.  She  looked  at  him  as  much 
as  she  dared  (for  she  was  afraid  of  seeming  to  offer 


164  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

herself  to  his  observation),  and  she  pitied  him  for 
the  sorrow  she  had  brought  upon  him.  She  held  up 
her  head  and  busied  her  hands,  and  went  about  her 
daily  occupations ;  and  when  the  state  of  things  in 
Washington  Square  seemed  intolerable,  she  closed 
her  eyes  and  indulged  herself  with  an  intellectual 
vision  of  the  man  for  whose  sake  she  had  broken  a 
sacred  law. 

Mrs.  Penniman,  of  the  three  persons  in  Washing- 
ton Square,  had  much  the  most  of  the  manner  that 
belongs  to  a  great  crisis.  If  Catherine  was  quiet, 
she  was  quietly  quiet,  as  I  may  say,  and  her  pathetic 
effects,  which  there  was  no  one  to  notice,  were  en- 
tirely unstudied  and  unintended.  If  the  Doctor  was 
stiff  and  dry,  and  absolutely  indifferent  to  the  pres- 
ence of  his  companions,  it  was  so  lightly,  neatly,  easi- 
ly done,  that  you  would  have  had  to  know  him  well 
to  discover  that,  on  the  whole,  he  rather  enjoyed 
having  to  be  so  disagreeable.  But  Mrs.  Penniman 
was  elaborately  reserved  and  significantly  silent; 
there  was  a  richer  rustle  in  the  very  deliberate 
movements  to  which  she  confined  herself,  and  when 
she  occasionally  spoke,  in  connection  with  some  very 
trivial  event,  she  had  the  air  of  meaning  something 
deeper  than  what  she  said.  Between  Catherine  and 
her  father  nothing  had  passed  since  the  evening  she 
went  to  speak  to  him  in  his  study.  She  had  some- 
thing to  say  to  him — it  seemed  to  her  she  ought  to 
say  it — but  she  kept  it  back  for  fear  of  irritating 
him.  He  also  had  something  to  say  to  her ;  but  he 
was  determined  not  to  speak  first.  He  was  inter- 
ested, as  we  know,  in  seeing  how,  if  she  were  left  to 
herself,  she  would  "  stick."  At  last  she  told  him 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  165 

she  had  seen  Morris  Townsend  again,  and  that  their 
relations  remained  quite  the  same. 

"  I  think  we  shall  marry — before  very  long.  And 
probably,  meanwhile,  I  shall  see  him  rather  often  ; 
about  once  a  week — not  more." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  her  coldly  from  head  to 
foot,  as  if  she  had  been  a  stranger.  It  was  the  first 
time  his  eyes  had  rested  on  her  for  a  week,  which 
was  fortunate,  if  that  was  to  be  their  expression. 
"  Why  not  three  times  a  day  ?"  he  asked.  "  What 
prevents  your  meeting  as  often  as  you  choose  ?" 

She  turned  away  a  moment ;  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes.  Then  she  said, "  It  is  better  once  a  week." 

"I  don't  see  how  it  is  better.  It  is  as  bad  as  it 
can  be.  If  you  flatter  yourself  that  I  care  for  little 
modifications  of  that  sort,  you  are  very  much  mis- 
taken. It  is  as  wrong  of  you  to  see  him  once  a  week 
as  it  would  be  to  see  him  all  day  long.  Not  that  it 
matters  to  me,  however." 

Catherine  tried  to  follow  these  words,  but  they 
seemed  to  lead  toward  a  vague  horror  from  which 
she  recoiled.  "  I  think  we  shall  marry  pretty  soon," 
she  repeated,  at  last. 

Her  father  gave  her  his  dreadful  look  again,  as  if 
she  were  some  one  else.  "Why  do  you  tell  me  that  ? 
It's  no  concern  of  mine." 

"  Oh,  father,"  she  broke  out, "  don't  you  care,  even 
if  you  do  feel  so  ?" 

"  Not  a  button.  Once  you  marry,  it's  quite  the 
same  to  me  when,  or  where,  or  why  you  do  it ;  and 
if  you  think  to  compound  for  your  folly  by  hoisting 
your  fly  in  this  way,  you  may  spare  yourself  the 
trouble." 


166  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

With  this  he  turned  away.  But  the  next  day  he 
spoke  to  her  of  his  own  accord,  and  his  manner  was 
somewhat  changed.  "  Shall  you  be  married  within 
the  next  four  or  five  months  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,  father,"  said  Catherine.  "  It  is 
not  very  easy  for  us  to  make  up  our  minds." 

"  Put  it  off,  then,  for  six  months,  and  in  the  mean 
time  I  will  take  you  to  Europe.  I  should  like  you 
very  much  to  go." 

It  gave  her  such  delight,  after  his  words  of  the 
day  before,  to  hear  that  he  should  "  like  "  her  to  do 
something,  and  that  he  still  had  in  his  heart  any  of 
the  tenderness  of  preference,  that  she  gave  a  little 
exclamation  of  joy.  But  then  she  became  conscious 
that  Morris  was  not  included  in  this  proposal,  and 
that — as  regards  really  going  —  she  would  greatly 
prefer  to  remain  at  home  with  him.  But  she  blush- 
ed none  the  less  more  comfortably  than  she  had 
done  of  late.  "It  would  be  delightful  to  go  to 
Europe,"  she  remarked,  with  a  sense  that  the  idea 
was  not  original,  and  that  her  tone  was  not  all  it 
might  be. 

"  Very  well,  then,  we  will  go.  Pack  up  your 
clothes." 

"  I  had  better  tell  Mr.  Townsend,"  said  Catherine. 

Her  father  fixed  his  cold  eyes  upon  her.  "  If  you 
mean  that  you  had  better  ask  his  leave,  all  that  re- 
mains to  me  is  to  hope  he  will  give  it." 

The  girl  was  sharply  touched  by  the  pathetic  ring 
of  the  words ;  it  was  the  most  calculated,  the  most 
dramatic  little  speech  the  Doctor  had  ever  uttered. 
She  felt  that  it  was  a  great  thing  for  her,  under  the 
circumstances,  to  have  this  fine  opportunity  of  show- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  167 

ing  him  her  respect ;  and  jet  there  was  something 
else  that  she  felt  as  well,  and  that  she  presently  ex- 
pressed. "  I  sometimes  think  that  if  I  do  what  you 
dislike  so  much,  I  ought  not  to  stay  with  you." 

"  To  stay  with  me  ?" 

"  If  I  live  with  you,  I  ought  to  obey  you." 

"  If  that's  your  theory,  it's  certainly  mine,"  said 
the  Doctor,  with  a  dry  laugh. 

"  But  if  I  don't  obey  you,  I  ought  not  to  live  with 
you — to  enjoy  your  kindness  and  protection." 

This  striking  argument  gave  the  Doctor  a  sud- 
den sense  of  having  underestimated  his  daughter ; 
it  seemed  even  more  than  worthy  of  a  young  wom- 
an who  had  revealed  the  quality  of  unaggressive 
obstinacy.  But  it  displeased  him — displeased  him 
deeply,  and  he  signified  as  much.  "  That  idea  is  in 
very  bad  taste,"  he  said.  "  Did  you  get  it  from  Mr. 
Townsend?" 

"  Oh  no ;  it's  my  own,"  said  Catherine,  eagerly. 

"  Keep  it  to  yourself,  then,"  her  father  answered, 
more  than  ever  determined  she  should  go  to  Eu- 
rope. 


168  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 


XXIII. 

IF  Morris  Townsend  was  not  to  be  included  in 
this  journey,  rio  more  was  Mrs.  Penniman,  who 
would  have  been  thankful  for  an  invitation,  but 
who  (to  do  her  justice)  bore  her  disappointment  in 
a  perfectly  lady-like  manner.  "  I  should  enjoy  see- 
ing the  works  of  Raphael  and  the  ruins — the  ruins  of 
the  Pantheon,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Almond ;  "  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  I  shall  not  be  sorry  to  be  alone  and 
at  peace  for  the  next  few  months  in  Washington 
Square.  I  want  rest ;  I  have  been  through  so  much 
in  the  last  four  months."  Mrs.  Almond  thought  it 
rather  cruel  that  her  brother  should  not  take  poor 
Lavinia  abroad;  but  she  easily  understood  that,  if 
the  purpose  of  his  expedition  was  to  make  Catherine 
forget  her  lover,  it  was  not  in  his  interest  to  give  his 
daughter  this  young  man's  best  friend  as  a  compan- 
ion. "  If  Lavinia  had  not  been  so  foolish,  she  might 
visit  the  ruins  of  the  Pantheon,"  she  said  to  herself ; 
and  she  continued  to  regret  her  sister's  folly,  even 
though  the  latter  assured  her  that  she  had  often 
heard  the  relics  in  question  most  satisfactorily  de- 
scribed by  Mr.  Penniman.  Mrs.  Penniman  was  per- 
fectly aware  that  her  brother's  motive  in  undertak- 
ing a  foreign  tour  was  to  lay  a  trap  for  Catherine's 
constancy ;  and  she  imparted  this  conviction  very 
frankly  to  her  niece. 

"  He  thinks  it  will  make  you  forget  Morris,"  she 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  169 

said  (she  always  called  the  young  man  "Morris" 
now) :  "  out  of  sight,  out  of  mind,  you  know.  He 
thinks  that  all  the  things  you  will  see  over  there 
will  drive  him  out  of  your  thoughts." 

Catherine  looked  greatly  alarmed.  "  If  he  thinks 
that,  I  ought  to  tell  him  beforehand." 

Mrs.  Penniman  shook  her  head.  "  Tell  him  after- 
ward, my  dear — after  he  has  had  all  the  trouble  and 
expense.  That's  the  way  to  serve  him."  And  she 
added,  in  a  softer  key,  that  it  must  be  delightful  to 
think  of  those  who  love  us  among  the  ruins  of  the 
Pantheon. 

Her  father's  displeasure  had  cost  the  girl,  as  we 
know,  a  great  deal  of  deep- welling  sorrow — sorrow  of 
the  purest  and  most  generous  kind,  without  a  touch 
of  resentment  or  rancor ;  but  for  the  first  time,  after 
he  had  dismissed  with  such  contemptuous  brevity  her 
apology  for  being  a  charge  upon  him,  there  was  a  spark 
of  anger  in  her  grief.  She  had  felt  his  contempt ; 
it  had  scorched  her ;  that  speech  about  her  bad  taste 
had  made  her  ears  burn  for  three  days.  During  this 
period  she  was  less  considerate ;  she  had  an  idea — a 
rather  vague  one,  but  it  was  agreeable  to  her  sense 
of  injury — that  now  she  was  absolved  from  penance, 
and  might  do  what  she  chose.  She  chose  to  write 
to  Morris  Townsend  to  meet  her  in  the  Square  and 
take  her  to  walk  about  the  town.  If  she  were  go- 
ing to  Europe  out  of  respect  to  her  father,  she  might 
at  least  give  herself  this  satisfaction.  She  felt  in 
every  way  at  present  more  free  and  more  reso- 
lute ;  there  was  a  force  that  urged  her.  Now  at 
last,  completely  and  unreservedly,  her  passion  pos- 
sessed her. 


170  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

Morris  met  her  at  last,  and  they  took  a  long  walk. 
She  told  him  immediately  what  had  happened  ;  that 
her  father  wished  to  take  her  away — it  would  be  for 
six  months  —  to  Europe ;  she  would  do  absolutely 
what  Morris  should  think  best.  She  hoped  inex- 
pressibly that  he  would  think  it  best  she  should  stay 
at  home.  It  was  some  time  before  he  said  what  he 
thought ;  he  asked,  as  they  walked  along,  a  great 
many  questions.  There  was  one  that  especially 
struck  her  ;  it  seemed  so  incongruous. 

"  Should  you  like  to  see  all  those  celebrated  things 
over  there  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  Morris !"  said  Catherine,  quite  deprecat- 
ingly. 

"  Gracious  Heaven,  what  a  dull  woman  !"  Morris 
exclaimed  to  himself. 

"  He  thinks  I  will  forget  you,"  said  Catherine ; 
"  that  all  these  things  will  drive  you  out  of  my 
mind." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  perhaps  they  will." 

"  Please  don't  say  that,"  Catherine  answered,  gen- 
tly, as  they  walked  along.  "  Poor  father  will  be  dis- 
appointed." 

Morris  gave  a  little  laugh.  "  Yes,  I  verily  believe 
that  your  poor  father  will  be  disappointed.  But 
you  will  have  seen  Europe,"  he  added,  humorously. 
"  What  a  take-in !" 

"  I  don't  care  for  seeing  Europe,"  Catherine  said. 

"  You  ought  to  care,  my  dear ;  and  it  may  mol- 
lify your  father." 

Catherine,  conscious  of  her  obstinacy,  expected  lit- 
tle of  this,  and  could  not  rid  herself  of  the  idea  that 
in  going  abroad  and  yet  remaining  firm,  she  should 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  171 

play  her  father  a  trick.  "  Don't  you  think  it  would 
be  a  kind  of  deception  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Doesn't  he  want  to  deceive  you  ?"  cried  Morris. 
"It  will  serve  him  right.  I  really  think  you  had 
better  go." 

"  And  not  be  married  for  so  long  ?" 

"  Be  married  when  you  come  back.  You  can  buy 
your  wedding-clothes  in  Paris."  And  then  Morris, 
with  great  kindness  of  tone,  explained  his  view  of 
the  matter.  It  would  be  a  good  thing  that  she 
should  go;  it  would  put  them  completely  in  the 
right.  It  would  show  they  were  reasonable,  and 
willing  to  wait.  Once  they  were  so  sure  of  each 
other,  they  could  afford  to  wait — what  had  they  to 
fear  ?  If  there  was  a  particle  of  chance  that  her 
father  would  be  favorably  affected  by  her  going, 
that  ought  to  settle  it ;  for,  after  all,  Morris  was  very 
unwilling  to  be  the  cause  of  her  being  disinherited. 
It  was  not  for  himself,  it  was  for  her  and  for  her 
children.  He  was  willing  to  wait  for  her  ;  it  would 
be  hard,  but  he  could  do  it.  And  over  there,  among 
beautiful  scenes  and  noble  monuments,  perhaps  the 
old  gentleman  would  be  softened ;  such  things  were 
supposed  to  exert  a  humanizing  influence.  He 
might  be  touched  by  her  gentleness,  her  patience, 
her  willingness  to  make  any  sacrifice  but  that  one ; 
and  if  she  should  appeal  to  him  some  day,  in  some 
celebrated  spot — in  Italy,  say,  in  the  evening ;  in 
Venice,  in  a  gondola,  by  moonlight — if  she  should 
be  a  little  clever  about  it,  and  touch  the  right  chord, 
perhaps  he  would  fold  her  in  his  arms,  and  tell  her 
that  he  forgave  her.  Catherine  was  immensely 
struck  with  this  conception  of  the  affair,  which 


172  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

seemed  eminently  worthy  of  her  lover's  brilliant  in- 
tellect, though  she  viewed  it  askance  in  so  far  as  it 
depended  upon  her  own  powers  of  execution.  The 
idea  of  being  "  clever "  in  a  gondola  by  moonlight 
appeared  to  her  to  involve  elements  of  which  her 
grasp  was  not  active.  But  it  was  settled  between 
them  that  she  should  tell  her  father  that  she  was 
ready  to  follow  him  obediently  anywhere,  making 
the  mental  reservation  that  she  loved  Morris  Towns- 
end  more  than  ever. 

She  informed  the  Doctor  she  was  ready  to  em- 
bark, and  he  made  rapid  arrangements  for  this 
event.  Catherine  had  many  farewells  to  make,  but 
with  only  two  of  them  are  we  actively  concerned. 
Mrs.  Penniman  took  a  discriminating  view  of  her 
niece's  journey ;  it  seemed  to  her  very  proper  that 
Mr.  Townsend's  destined  bride  should  wish  to  em- 
bellish her  mind  by  a  foreign  tour. 

"  You  leave  him  in  good  hands,"  she  said,  press- 
ing her  lips  to  Catherine's  forehead.  (She  was  very 
fond  of  kissing  people's  foreheads ;  it  was  an  invol- 
untary expression  of  sympathy  with  the  intellectual 
part.)  "  I  shall  see  him  often  ;  I  shall  feel  like  one 
of  the  vestals  of  old  tending  the  sacred  flame." 

"You  behave  beautifully  about  not  going  with 
us,"  Catherine  answered,  not  presuming  to  examine 
this  analogy. 

"  It  is  my  pride  that  keeps  me  up,"  said  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman, tapping  the  body  of  her  dress,  which  always 
gave  forth  a  sort  of  metallic  ring. 

Catherine's  parting  with  her  lover  was  short,  and 
few  words  were  exchanged. 

"Shall  I  find  you  just  the  same  when  I  come 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  173 

back  ?"  she  asked ;  though  the  question  was  not  the 
fruit  of  scepticism. 

"  The  same — only  more  so,"  said  Morris,  smiling. 

It  does  not  enter  into  our  scheme  to  narrate  in 
detail  Doctor  Sloper's  proceedings  in  the  Eastern 
hemisphere.  He  made  the  grand  tour  of  Europe, 
travelled  in  considerable  splendor,  and  (as  was  to 
have  been  expected  in  a  man  of  his  high  cultivation) 
found  so  much  in  art  and  antiquity  to  interest  him, 
that  he  remained  abroad,  not  for  six  months,  but  for 
twelve.  Mrs.  Penniman,  in  Washington  Square, 
accommodated  herself  to  his  absence.  She  enjoyed 
her  uncontested  dominion  in  the  empty  house,  and 
flattered  herself  that  she  made  it  more  attractive  to 
their  friends  than  when  her  brother  was  at  home. 
To  Morris  Townsend,  at  least,  it  would  have  appear- 
ed that  she  made  it  singularly  attractive.  He  was 
altogether  her  most  frequent  visitor,  and  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman was  very  fond  of  asking  him  to  tea.  He  had 
his  chair  —  a  very  easy  one  —  at  the  fireside  in  the 
back  parlor  (when  the  great  mahogany  sliding  doors, 
with  silver  knobs  and  hinges,  which  divided  this 
apartment  from  its  more  formal  neighbor,  were 
closed),  and  he  used  to  smoke  cigars  in  the  Doctor's 
study,  where  he  often  spent  an  hour  in  turning  over 
the  curious  collections  of  its  absent  proprietor.  He 
thought  Mrs.  Penniman  a  goose,  as  we  know ;  but 
he  was  no  goose  himself,  and,  as  a  young  man  of 
luxurious  tastes  and  scanty  resources,  he  found  the 
house  a  perfect  castle  of  indolence.  It  became  for 
him  a  club  with  a  single  member.  Mrs.  Penniman 
saw  much  less  of  her  sister  than  while  the  Doctor 
was  at  home ;  for  Mrs.  Almond  had  felt  moved  to 


174  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

tell  her  that  she  disapproved  of  her  relations  with 
Mr.  Townsend.  She  had  no  business  to  be  so 
friendly  to  a  young  man  of  whom  their  brother 
thought  so  meanly,  and  Mrs.  Almond  was  surprised 
at  her  levity  in  foisting  a  most  deplorable  engage- 
ment upon  Catherine. 

"  Deplorable !"  cried  Lavinia.  "  He  will  make 
her  a  lovely  husband." 

"I  don't  believe  in  lovely  husbands,"  said  Mrs. 
Almond ;  "  I  only  believe  in  good  ones.  If  he  mar- 
ries her,  and  she  comes  into  Austin's  money,  they 
may  get  on.  He  will  be  an  idle,  amiable,  selfish, 
and,  doubtless,  tolerably  good-natured  fellow.  But 
if  she  doesn't  get  the  money,  and  he  finds  himself 
tied  to  her,  Heaven  have  mercy  on  her!  He  will 
have  none.  He  will  hate  her  for  his  disappoint- 
ment, and  take  his  revenge ;  he  will  be  pitiless  and 
cruel.  Woe  betide  poor  Catherine !  I  recommend 
you  to  talk  a  little  with  his  sister ;  it's  a  pity  Cathe- 
rine can't  marry  her!" 

Mrs.  Penniman  had  no  appetite  whatever  for 
conversation  with  Mrs.  Montgomery,  whose  acquaint- 
ance she  made  no  trouble  to  cultivate ;  and  the  ef- 
fect of  this  alarming  forecast  of  her  niece's  destiny 
was  to  make  her  think  it  indeed  a  thousand  pities 
that  Mr.  Townsend's  generous  nature  should  be  em- 
bittered. Bright  enjoyment  was  his  natural  ele- 
ment, and  how  could  he  be  comfortable  if  there 
should  prove  to  be  nothing  to  enjoy  ?  It  became  a 
fixed  idea  with  Mrs.  Penniman  that  he  should  yet  en- 
joy her  brother's  fortune,  on  which  she  had  acuteness 
enough  to  perceive  that  her  own  claim  was  small. 

"  If  he  doesn't  leave  it  to  Catherine,  it  certainly 
won't  be  to  leave  it  to  me,"  she  said. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  175 


XXIY. 

THE  Doctor,  during  the  first  six  months  he  was 
abroad,  never  spoke  to  his  daughter  of  their  little 
difference,  partly  on  system,  and  partly  because  he 
had  a  great  many  other  things  to  think  about.  It 
was  idle  to  attempt  to  ascertain  the  state  of  her  af- 
fections without  direct  inquiry,  because  if  she  had 
not  had  an  expressive  manner  among  the  familiar 
influences  of  home,  she  failed  to  gather  animation 
from  the  mountains  of  Switzerland  or  the  monu- 
ments of  Italy.  She  was  always  her  father's  docile 
and  reasonable  associate — going  through  their  sight- 
seeing in  deferential  silence,  never  complaining  of 
fatigue,  always  ready  to  start  at  the  hour  he  had  ap- 
pointed overnight,  making  no  foolish  criticisms,  and 
indulging  in  no  refinements  of  appreciation.  "  She 
is  about  as  intelligent  as  the  bundle  of  shawls,"  the 
Doctor  said,  her  main  superiority  being  that,  while 
the  bundle  of  shawls  sometimes  got  lost,  or  tumbled 
out  of  the  carriage,  Catherine  was  always  at  her  post, 
and  had  a  firm  and  ample  seat.  But  her  father  had 
expected  this,  and  he  was  not  constrained  to  set 
down  her  intellectual  limitations  as  a  tourist  to  sen- 
timental depression;  she  had  completely  divested 
herself  of  the  characteristics  of  a  victim,  and  during 
the  whole  time  that  they  were  abroad  she  never  ut- 
tered an  audible  sigh.  He  supposed  she  was  in  cor- 
respondence with  Morris  Town  send,  but  he  held  his 


176  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

peace  about  it,  for  he  never  saw  the  young  man's 
letters,  and  Catherine's  own  missives  were  always 
given  to  the  courier  to  post.  She  heard  from  her 
lover  with  considerable  regularity,  but  his  letters 
came  enclosed  in  Mrs.  Penniman's ;  so  that,  when- 
ever the  Doctor  handed  her  a  packet  addressed  in 
his  sister's  hand,  he  was  an  involuntary  instrument 
of  the  passion  he  condemned.  Catherine  made  this 
reflection,  and  six  months  earlier  she  would  have 
felt  bound  to  give  him  warning ;  but  now  she  deem- 
ed herself  absolved.  There  was  a  sore  spot  in  her 
heart  that  his  own  words  had  made  when  once  she 
spoke  to  him  as  she  thought  honor  prompted  ;  she 
would  try  and  please  him  as  far  as  she  could,  but 
she  would  never  speak  that  way  again.  She  read 
her  lover's  letters  in  secret. 

One  day,  at  the  end  of  the  summer,  the  two  trav- 
ellers found  themselves  in  a  lonely  valley  of  the 
Alps.  They  were  crossing  one  of  the  passes,  and  on 
the  long  ascent  they  had  got  out  of  the  carriage  and 
had  wandered  much  in  advance.  After  awhile  the 
Doctor  descried  a  foot-path  which,  leading  through 
a  transverse  valley,  would  bring  them  out,  as  he  just- 
ly supposed,  at  a  much  higher  point  of  the  ascent. 
They  followed  this  devious  way,  and  finally  lost  the 
path ;  the  valley  proved  very  wild  and  rough,  and 
their  walk  became  rather  a  scramble.  They  were 
good  walkers,  however,  and  they  took  their  advent- 
ure easily ;  from  time  to  time  they  stopped,  that 
Catherine  might  rest ;  and  then  she  sat  upon  a 
stone  and  looked  about  her  at  the  hard-featured 
rocks  and  the  glowing  sky.  It  was  late  in  the  after- 
noon, in  the  last  of  August ;  night  was  coming  on, 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  177 

and  as  they  had  reached  a  great  elevation,  the  air 
was  cold  and  sharp.  In  the  west  there  was  a  great 
suffusion  of  cold  red  light,  which  made  the  sides  of 
the  little  valley  look  only  the  more  rugged  and 
dusky.  During  one  of  their  pauses  her  father  left 
her  and  wandered  away  to  some  high  place,  at  a  dis- 
tance, to  get  a  view.  He  was  out  of  sight ;  she  sat 
there  alone  in  the  stillness,  which  was  just  touched 
by  the  vague  murmur  somewhere  of  a  mountain 
brook.  She  thought  of  Morris  Townsend,  and  the 
place  was  so  desolate  and  lonely  that  he  seemed  very 
far  away.  Her  father  remained  absent  a  long  time ; 
she  began  to  wonder  what  had  become  of  him.  But 
at  last  he  reappeared,  coming  toward  her  in  the  clear 
twilight,  and  she  got  up  to  go  on.  He  made  no  mo- 
tion to  proceed,  however,  but  came  close  to  her,  as 
if  he  had  something  to  say.  He  stopped  in  front 
of  her,  and  stood  looking  at  her  with  eyes  that  had 
kept  the  light  of  the  flushing  snow -summits  on 
which  they  had  just  been  fixed.  Then,  abruptly,  in 
a  low  tone,  he  asked  her  an  unexpected  question, 

"  Have  you  given  him  up  ?" 

The  question  was  unexpected,  but  Catherine  was 
only  superficially  unprepared. 

"  No,  father,"  she  answered. 

He  looked  at  her  again  for  some  moments  with- 
out speaking. 

"  Does  he  write  to  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  about  twice  a  month." 

The  Doctor  looked  up  and  down  the  valley, 
swinging  his  stick ;  then  he  said  to  her,  in  the  same 
low  tone, 

"  I  am  very  angry." 

12 


178  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

She  wondered  what  he  meant — whether  he  wish- 
ed to  frighten  her.  If  he  did,  the  place  was  well 
chosen :  this  hard,  melancholy  dell,  abandoned  by 
the  summer  light,  made  her  feel  her  loneliness. 
She  looked  around  her,  and  her  heart  grew  cold ; 
for  a  moment  her  fear  was  great.  But  she  could 
think  of  nothing  to  say,  save  to  murmur,  gently, "  I 
am  sorry." 

"  You  try  my  patience,"  her  father  went  on,  "  and 
you  ought  to  know  what  I  am.  I  am  not  a  very 
good  man.  Though  I  am  very  smooth  externally, 
at  bottom  I  am  very  passionate ;  and  I  assure  you  I 
can  be  very  hard." 

She  could  not  think  why  he  told  her  these  things. 
Had  he  brought  her  there  on  purpose,  and  was  it 
part  of  a  plan  ?  What  was  the  plan  ?  Catherine  ask- 
ed herself.  Was  it  to  startle  her  suddenly  into  a 
retraction — to  take  an  advantage  of  her  by  dread  ? 
Dread  of  what?  The  place  was  ugly  and  lonely, 
but  the  place  could  do  her  no  harm.  There  was  a 
kind  of  still  intensity  about  her  father  which  made 
him  dangerous,  but  Catherine  hardly  went  so  far  as 
to  say  to  herself  that  it  might  be  part  of  his  plan  to 
fasten  his  hand — the  neat,  fine,  supple  hand  of  a  dis- 
tinguished physician — in  her  throat.  Nevertheless, 
she  receded  a  step.  "  I  am  sure  you  can  be  anything 
you  please,"  she  said ;  and  it  was  her  simple  belief. 

"  I  am  very  angry,"  he  replied,  more  sharply. 

"  Why  has  it  taken  you  so  suddenly  ?" 

"It  has  not  taken  me  suddenly.  I  have  been 
raging  inwardly  for  the  last  six  months.  But  just 
now  this  seemed  a  good  place  to  flare  out.  It's  so 
quiet,  and  we  are  alone." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  179 

"Yes,  it's  very  quiet,"  said  Catherine,  vaguely 
looking  about  her.  "  Won't  you  come  back  to  the 
carriage  ?" 

"  In  a  moment.  Do  you  mean  that  in  all  this 
time  you  have  not  yielded  an  inch  ?" 

"  I  would  if  I  could,  father ;  but  I  can't." 

The  Doctor  looked  round  him  too.  "  Should  you 
like  to  be  left  in  such  a  place  as  this,  to  starve  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  the  girl. 

"  That  will  be  your  fate — that's  how  he  will  leave 
you." 

He  would  not  touch  her,  but  he  had  touched  Mor- 
ris. The  warmth  came  back  to  her  heart.  "  That 
is  not  true,  father,"  she  broke  out,  "  and  you  ought 
not  to  say  it.  It  is  not  right,  and  it's  not  true." 

He  shook  his  head  slowly.  "  No,  it's  not  right, 
because  you  won't  believe  it.  But  it  is  true.  Come 
back  to  the  carriage." 

He  turned  away,  and  she  followed  him ;  he  went 
faster,  and  was  presently  much  in  advance.  But 
from  time  to  time  he  stopped,  without  turning 
round,  to  let  her  keep  up  with  him,  and  she  made 
her  way  forward  with  difficulty,  her  heart  beating 
with  the  excitement  of  having  for  the  first  time  spo- 
ken to  him  in  violence.  By  this  time  it  had  grown 
almost  dark,  and  she  ended  by  losing  sight  of  him. 
But  she  kept  her  course,  and  after  a  little,  the  valley 
making  a  sudden  turn,  she  gained  the  road,  where 
the  carriage  stood  waiting.  In  it  sat  her  father, 
rigid  and  silent ;  in  silence,  too,  she  took  her  place 
beside  him. 

It  seemed  to  her,  later,  in  looking  back  upon  all 
this,  that  for  days  afterward  not  a  word  had  been 


180  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

exchanged  between  them.  The  scene  had  been  a 
strange  one,  but  it  had  not  permanently  affected  her 
feeling  toward  her  father,  for  it  was  natural,  after 
all,  that  he  should  occasionally  make  a  scene  of  some 
kind,  and  he  had  let  her  alone  for  six  months.  The 
strangest  part  of  it  was  that  he  had  said  he  was  not 
a  good  man ;  Catherine  wondered  a  good  deal  what 
he  had  meant  by  that.  The  statement  failed  to  ap- 
peal to  her  credence,  and  it  was  not  grateful  to  any 
resentment  that  she  entertained.  Even  in  the  ut- 
most bitterness  that  she  might  feel,  it  would  give 
her  no  satisfaction  to  think  him  less  complete.  Such 
a  saying  as  that  was  a  part  of  his  great  subtlety — 
men  so  clever  as  he  might  say  anything  and  mean 
anything ;  and  as  to  his  being  hard,  that  surely,  in 
a  man,  was  a  virtue. 

He  let  her  alone  for  six  months  more — six  months 
during  which  she  accommodated  herself  without  a 
protest  to  the  extension  of  their  tour.  But  he  spoke 
again  at  the  end  of  this  time :  it  was  at  the  very  last, 
the  night  before  they  embarked  for  New  York,  in 
the  hotel  at  Liverpool.  They  had  been  dining  to- 
gether in  a  great,  dim,  musty  sitting-room ;  and  then 
the  cloth  had  been  removed,  and  the  Doctor  walked 
slowly  up  and  down.  Catherine  at  last  took  her 
candle  to  go  to  bed,  but  her  father  motioned  her  to 
stay. 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  when  you  get  home  ?" 
he  asked,  while  she  stood  there  with  her  candle  in 
her  hand. 

"  Do  you  mean  about  Mr.  Townsend  ?" 

"About  Mr.  Townsend." 

"  We  shall  probably  marry." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  181 

The  Doctor  took  several  turns  again  while  she 
waited.  "  Do  you  hear  from  him  as  much  as  ever  ?" 

"  Yes,  twice  a  month,"  said  Catherine,  promptly. 

"And  does  he  always  talk  about  marriage?1' 

"  Oh  yes ;  that  is,  he  talks  about  other  things  too, 
but  he  always  says  something  about  that." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  he  varies  his  subjects ;  his  let- 
ters might  otherwise  be  monotonous." 

"  He  writes  beautifully,"  said  Catherine,  who  was 
very  glad  of  a  chance  to  say  it. 

"  They  always  write  beautifully.  However,  in  a 
given  case  that  doesn't  diminish  the  merit.  So,  as 
soon  as  you  arrive,  you  are  going  off  with  him  ?" 

This  seemed  a  rather  gross  way  of  putting  it,  and 
something  that  there  was  of  dignity  in  Catherine 
resented  it.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  till  we  arrive,"  she 
said. 

"  That's  reasonable  enough,"  her  father  answered. 
"  That's  all  I  ask  of  you — that  you  do  tell  me,  that 
you  give  me  definite  notice.  When  a  poor  man  is 
to  lose  his  only  child,  he  likes  to  have  an  inkling  of 
it  beforehand." 

u  Oh,  father !  you  will  not  lose  me,"  Catherine 
said,  spilling  her  candle  wax. 

"  Three  days  before  will  do,"  he  went  on,  "  if  you 
are  in  a  position  to  be  positive  then.  He  ought  to 
be  very  thankful  to  me,  do  you  know.  I  have  done 
a  mighty  good  thing  for  him  in  taking  you  abroad; 
your  value  is  twice  as  great,  with  all  the  knowledge 
and  taste  that  you  have  acquired.  A  year  ago,  you 
were  perhaps  a  little  limited  —  a  little  rustic;  but 
now  you  have  seen  everything,  and  appreciated  ev- 
erything, and  you  will  be  a  most  entertaining  com- 


182  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

panion.  We  have  fattened  the  sheep  for  him  be- 
fore he  kills  it."  Catherine  turned  away,  and  stood 
staring  at  the  blank  door.  "  Go  to  bed,"  said  her 
father ;  "  and  as  we  don't  go  aboard  till  noon,  you 
may  sleep  late.  We  shall  probably  have  a  most  un- 
comfortable voyage." 


WASHINGTON   SQUAKE. 


183 


CHAPTEE  XXY. 


THE  voyage  was  indeed  uncomfortable,  and  Cath- 
erine, on  arriving  in  New  York,  had  not  the  com- 
pensation of  "going  off,"  in  her  father's  phrase, 
with  Morris  Townsend.  She  saw  him,  however, 
the  day  after  she  landed ;  and  in  the  mean  time  he 
formed  a  natural  subject  of  conversation  between 
our  heroine  and  her  aunt  Lavinia,  with  whom,  the 


184  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

night  she  disembarked,  the  girl  was  closeted  for  a 
long  time  before  either  lady  retired  to  rest. 

"  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  him,"  said  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman.  "  He  is  not  very  easy  to  know.  I  suppose 
you  think  you  know  him ;  but  you  don't,  my  dear. 
You  will  some  day ;  but  it  will  only  be  after  you 
have  lived  with  him.  I  may  almost  say  I  have 
lived  with  him,"  Mrs.  Penniman  proceeded,  while 
Catherine  stared.  "  I  think  I  know  him  now ;  I 
have  had  such  remarkable  opportunities.  You  will 
have  the  same  —  or,  rather,  you  will  have  better;" 
and  Aunt  Lavinia  smiled.  "  Then  you  will  see 
what  I  mean.  It's  a  wonderful  character,  full  of 
passion  and  energy,  and  just  as  true." 

Catherine  listened  with  a  mixture  of  interest  and 
apprehension.  Aunt  Lavinia  was  intensely  sym- 
pathetic, and  Catherine,  for  the  past  year,  while  she 
wandered  through  foreign  galleries  and  churches, 
and  rolled  over  the  smoothness  of  posting  roads, 
nursing  the  thoughts  that  never  passed  her  lips,  had 
often  longed  for  the  company  of  some  intelligent 
person  of  her  own  sex.  To  tell  her  story  to  some 
kind  woman — at  moments  it  seemed  to  her  that  this 
would  give  her  comfort,  and  she  had  more  than  once 
been  on  the  point  of  taking  the  landlady,  or  the  nice 
young  person  from  the  dress-maker's,  into  her  con- 
fidence. If  a  woman  had  been  near  her,  she  would 
on  certain  occasions  have  treated  such  a  companion 
to  a  fit  of  weeping ;  and  she  had  an  apprehension 
that,  on  her  return,  this  would  form  her  response  to 
Aunt  Lavinia's  first  embrace.  In  fact,  however,  the 
two  ladies  had  met,  in  Washington  Square,  without 
tears ;  and  when  they  found  themselves  alone  to- 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  185 

gether  a  certain  dryness  fell  upon  the  girl's  emo- 
tion. It  came  over  her  with  a  greater  force  that 
Mrs.  Penniman  had  enjoyed  a  whole  year  of  her 
lover's  society,  and  it  was  not  a  pleasure  to  her  to 
hear  her  aunt  explain  and  interpret  the  young  man, 
speaking  of  him  as  if  her  own  knowledge  of  him 
were  supreme.  It  was  not  that  Catherine  was  jeal- 
ous; but  her  sense  of  Mrs.  Penniman's  innocent 
falsity,  which  had  lain  dormant,  began  to  haunt  her 
again,  and  she  was  glad  that  she  was  safely  at  home. 
With  this,  however,  it  was  a  blessing  to  be  able  to 
talk  of  Morris,  to  sound  his  name,  to  be  with  a  per- 
son who  was  not  unjust  to  him. 

"  You  have  been  very  kind  to  him,"  said  Cath- 
erine. "He  has  written  me  that,  often.  I  shall 
never  forget  that,  Aunt  Lavinia." 

"  I  have  done  what  I  could ;  it  has  been  very  lit- 
tle. To  let  him  come  and  talk  to  me,  and  give  him 
his  cup  of  tea — that  was  all.  Your  aunt  Almond 
thought  it  was  too  much,  and  used  to  scold  me  ter- 
ribly ;  but  she  promised  me,  at  least,  not  to  betray 
me." 

"To  betray  you?" 

"  Not  to  tell  your  father.  He  used  to  sit  in  your 
father's  study,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  with  a  little 
laugh. 

Catherine  was  silent  a  moment.  This  idea  was 
disagreeable  to  her,  and  she  was  reminded  again, 
with  pain,  of  her  aunt's  secretive  habits.  Morris, 
the  reader  may  be  informed,  had  had  the  tact  not  to 
tell  her  that  he  sat  in  her  father's  study.  He  had 
known  her  but  for  a  few  months,  and  her  aunt  had 
known  her  for  fifteen  years;  and  yet  he  would  not 


186  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

have  made  the  mistake  of  thinking  that  Catherine 
would  see  the  joke  of  the  thing.  "  I  am  sorry  you 
made  him  go  into  father's  room,"  she  said,  after 
awhile. 

"  I  didn't  send  him ;  he  went  himself.  He  liked 
to  look  at  the  books,  and  at  all  those  things  in  the 
glass  cases.  He  knows  all  about  them ;  he  knows 
all  about  everything." 

Catherine  was  silent  again ;  then,  "  I  wish  he  had 
found  some  employment,"  she  said. 

"He  has  found  some  employment.  It's  beauti- 
ful news,  and  he  told  me  to  tell  you  as  soon  as  you 
arrived.  He  has  gone  into  partnership  with  a  com- 
mission merchant.  It  was  all  settled,  quite  sudden- 
ly, a  week  ago." 

This  seemed  to  Catherine  indeed  beautiful  news ; 
it  had  a  fine  prosperous  air.  "  Oh,  I'm  so  glad !" 
she  said ;  and  now,  for  a  moment,  she  was  disposed 
to  throw  herself  on  Aunt  Lavinia's  neck. 

"It's  much  better  than  being  under  some  one; 
and  he  has  never  been  used  to  that,"  Mrs.  Penniman 
went  on.  "  He  is  just  as  good  as  his  partner — they 
are  perfectly  equal.  You  see  how  right  he  was  to 
wait.  I  should  like  to  know  what  your  father  can 
say  now !  They  have  got  an  office  in  Duane  Street, 
and  little  printed  cards  ;  he  brought  me  one  to  show 
me.  I  have  got  it  in  my  room,  and  you  shall  see  it 
to-morrow.  That's  what  he  said  to  me  the  last  time 
he  was  here — *  You  see  how  right  I  was  to  wait.' 
He  has  got  other  people  under  him  instead  of  being 
a  subordinate.  He  could  never  be  a  subordinate ; 
I  have  often  told  him  I  could  never  think  of  him  in 
that  way." 


"I  SHALL  REGARD  IT  ONLY  AS  A  LOAN,"  SHE  SAID. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  189 

Catherine  assented  to  this  proposition,  and  was 
very  happy  to  know  that  Morris  was  his  own  mas- 
ter; but  she  was  deprived  of  the  satisfaction  of 
thinking  that  she  might  communicate  this  news  in 
triumph  to  her  father.  Her  father  would  care 
equally  little  whether  Morris  were  established  in 
business  or  transported  for  life.  Her  trunks  had 
been  brought  into  her  room,  and  further  reference 
to  her  lover  was  for  a  short  time  suspended,  while 
she  opened  them  and  displayed  to  her  aunt  some  of 
the  spoils  of  foreign  travel.  These  were  rich  and 
abundant ;  and  Catherine  had  brought  home  a  pres- 
ent to  every  one — to  every  one  save  Morris,  to  whom 
she  had  brought  simply  her  undiverted  heart.  To 
Mrs.  Penniman  she  had  been  lavishly  generous,  and 
Aunt  Lavinia  spent  half  an  hour  in  unfolding  and 
folding  again,  with  little  ejaculations  of  gratitude 
and  taste.  She  marched  about  for  some  time  in  a 
splendid  cashmere  shawl,  which  Catherine  had  beg- 
ged her  to  accept,  settling  it  on  her  shoulders,  and 
twisting  down  her  head  to  see  how  low  the  point 
descended  behind. 

"  I  shall  regard  it  only  as  a  loan,"  she  said.  "  I 
will  leave  it  to  you  again  when  I  die ;  or,  rather," 
she  added,  kissing  her  niece  again,  "  I  will  leave  it 
to  your  first-born  little  girl."  And  draped  in  her 
shawl,  she  stood  there  smiling. 

"  You  had  better  wait  till  she  comes,"  said  Cath- 
erine. 

"  I  don't  like  the  way  you  say  that,"  Mrs.  Penni- 
man rejoined,  in  a  moment.  "  Catherine,  are  you 
changed  ?" 

"  No ;  I  am  the  same." 


190  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  You  have  not  swerved  a  line  ?" 

"I  am  exactly  the  same,"  Catherine  repeated, 
wishing  her  aunt  were  a  little  less  sympathetic. 

"  Well,  I  am  glad ;"  and  Mrs.  Penniman  surveyed 
her  cashmere  in  the  glass.  Then,  "  How  is  your  fa- 
ther ?"  she  asked,  in  a  moment,  with  her  eyes  on 
her  niece.  "  Your  letters  were  so  meagre — I  could 
never  tell." 

"  Father  is  very  well." 

"  Ah,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Penni- 
man, with  a  dignity  to  which  the  cashmere  gave  a 
richer  effect.  "  Is  he  still  implacable  ?" 

"  Oh  yes !" 

"  Quite  unchanged  3" 

"  He  is,  if  possible,  more  firm." 

Mrs.  Penniman  took  off  her  great  shawl,  and  slow- 
ly folded  it  up.  "  That  is  very  bad.  You  had  no 
success  with  your  little  project." 

"What  little  project?" 

"  Morris  told  me  all  about  it.  The  idea  of  turn- 
ing the  tables  on  him,  in  Europe ;  of  watching  him, 
when  he  was  agreeably  impressed  by  some  cele- 
brated sight — he  pretends  to  be  so  artistic,  you 
know — and  then  just  pleading  with  him  and  bring- 
ing him  round." 

"  I  never  tried  it.  It  was  Morris's  idea ;  but  if 
he  had  been  with  us  in  Europe,  he  would  have  seen 
that  father  was  never  impressed  in  that  way.  He 
is  artistic — tremendously  artistic ;  but  the  more  cel- 
ebrated places  we  visited,  and  the  more  he  admired 
them,  the  less  use  it  would  have  been  to  plead  with 
him.  They  seemed  only  to  make  him  more  deter- 
mined— more  terrible,"  said  poor  Catherine.  "I 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  191 

shall  never  bring  him  round,  and  I  expect  nothing 
now." 

"  Well,  I  must  say,"  Mrs.  Penniman  answered, 
"  I  never  supposed  you  were  going  to  give  it  up." 

"  I  have  given  it  up.     I  don't  care  now." 

"  You  have  grown  very  brave,"  said  Mrs.  Penni- 
man, with  a  short  laugh.  "  I  didn't  advise  you  to 
sacrifice  your  property." 

"  Yes,  I  am  braver  than  I  was.  You  asked  me  if 
I  had  changed ;  I  have  changed  in  that  way.  Oh," 
the  girl  went  on,  "  I  have  changed  very  much.  And 
it  isn't  my  property.  If  lie  doesn't  care  for  it,  why 
should  I?" 

Mrs.  Penniman  hesitated.  "  Perhaps  he  does  care 
for  it." 

"  He  cares  for  it  for  my  sake,  because  he  doesn't 
want  to  injure  me.  But  he  will  know — he  knows 
already — how  little  he  need  be  afraid  about  that. 
Besides,"  said  Catherine,  "  I  have  got  plenty  of  mon- 
ey of  my  own.  We  shall  be  very  well  off ;  and  now 
hasn't  he  got  his  business?  I  am  delighted  about 
that  business."  She  went  on  talking,  showing  a 
good  deal  of  excitement  as  she  proceeded.  Her 
aunt  had  never  seen  her  with  just  this  manner,  and 
Mrs.  Penniman,  observing  her,  set  it  down  to  for- 
eign travel,  which  had  made  her  more  positive,  more 
mature.  She  thought  also  that  Catherine  had  im- 
proved in  appearance ;  she  looked  rather  handsome. 
Mrs.  Penniman  wondered  whether  Morris  Townsend 
would  be  struck  with  that.  While  she  was  engaged 
in  this  speculation,  Catherine  broke  out,  with  a  cer- 
tain sharpness,  "  Why  are  you  so  contradictory,  Aunt 
Penniman?  You  seem  to  think  one  thing  at  one 


192  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

time,  and  another  at  another.  A  year  ago,  before 
yon  went  away,  you  wished  me  not  to  mind  about 
displeasing  father,  and  now  you  seem  to  recommend 
me  to  take  another  line.  You  change  about  so." 

This  attack  was  unexpected,  for  Mrs.  Penniman 
was  not  used,  in  any  discussion,  to  seeing  the  war 
carried  into  her  own  country — possibly  because  the 
enemy  generally  had  doubts  of  finding  subsistence 
there.  To  her  own  consciousness,  the  flowery  fields 
of  her  reason  had  rarely  been  ravaged  by  a  hostile 
force.  It  was  perhaps  on  this  account  that  in  de- 
fending them  she  was  majestic  rather  than  agile. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  accuse  me  of,  save  of 
being  too  deeply  interested  in  your  happiness.  It 
is  the  first  time  I  have  been  told  I  am  capricious. 
That  fault  is  not  what  I  am  usually  reproached 
with." 

"  You  were  angry  last  year  that  I  wouldn't  marry 
immediately,  and  now  you  talk  about  my  winning 
my  father  over.  You  told  me  it  would  serve  him 
right  if  he  should  take  me  to  Europe  for  nothing. 
Well,  he  has  taken  me  for  nothing,  and  you  ought 
to  be  satisfied.  Nothing  is  changed — nothing  but 
my  feeling  about  father.  I  don't  mind  nearly  so 
much  now.  I  have  been  as  good  as  I  could,  but 
he  doesn't  care.  Now  I  don't  care  either.  I  don't 
know  whether  I  have  grown  bad ;  perhaps  I  have. 
But  I  don't  care  for  that.  I  have  come  home  to  be 
married— that's  all  I  know.  That  ought  to  please 
you,  unless  you  have  taken  up  some  new  idea ;  you 
are  so  strange.  You  may  do  as  you  please,  but  you 
must  never  speak  to  me  again  about  pleading  with 
father.  I  shall  never  plead  with  him  for  anything ; 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  193 

that  is  all  over.     He  has  put  me  off.     I  am  come 
home  to  be  married." 

This  was  a  more  authoritative  speech  than  she  had 
ever  heard  on  her  niece's  lips,  and  Mrs.  Penniman 
was  proportionately  startled.  She  was,  indeed,  a  lit- 
tle awe -struck,  and  the  force  of  the  girl's  emotion 
and  resolution  left  her  nothing  to  reply.  She  was 
easily  frightened,  and  she  always  carried  off  her  dis- 
comfiture by  a  concession — a  concession  which  was 
often  accompanied,  as  in  the  present  case,  by  a  little 
nervous  laugh. 

XXVI. 

IF  she  had  disturbed  her  niece's  temper — she  be- 
gan from  this  moment  forward  to  talk  a  good  deal 
about  Catherine's  temper,  an  article  which  up  to 
that  time  had  never  been  mentioned  in  connection 
with  our  heroine  —  Catherine  had  opportunity  on 
the  morrow  to  recover  her  serenity.  Mrs.  Penni- 
man had  given  her  a  message  from  Morris  Townsend 
to  the  effect  that  he  would  come  and  welcome  her 
home  on  the  day  after  her  arrival.  He  came  in  the 
afternoon ;  but,  as  may  be  imagined,  he  was  not  on 
this  occasion  made  free  of  Doctor  Sloper's  study. 
He  had  been  coming  and  going,  for  the  past  year, 
so  comfortably  and  irresponsibly,  that  he  had  a  cer- 
tain sense  of  being  wronged  by  finding  himself  re- 
minded that  he  must  now  limit  his  horizon  to  the 
front  parlor,  which  was  Catherine's  particular  prov- 
ince. 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  have  come  back,"  he  said ; 
"  it  makes  me  very  happy  to  see  you  again."  And 

13 


194  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

he  looked  at  her,  smiling,  from  head  to  foot,  though 
it  did  not  appear  afterward  that  he  agreed  with  Mrs. 
Penniman  (who,  woman-like,  went  more  into  details) 
in  thinking  her  embellished. 

To  Catherine  he  appeared  resplendent;  it  was 
some  time  before  she  could  believe  again  that  this 
beautiful  young  man  was  her  own  exclusive  property. 
They  had  a  great  deal  of  characteristic  lovers'  talk 
— a  soft  exchange  of  inquiries  and  assurances.  In 
these  matters  Morris  had  an  excellent  grace,  which 
flung  a  picturesque  interest  even  over  the  account 
of  his  debut  in  the  commission  business — a  subject 
as  to  which  his  companion  earnestly  questioned  him. 
From  time  to  time  he  got  up  from  the  sofa  where 
they  sat  together,  and  walked  about  the  room ;  after 
which  he  came  back,  smiling  and  passing  his  hand 
through  his  hair.  He  was  unquiet,  as  was  natural 
in  a  young  man  who  has  just  been  reunited  to  a  long- 
absent  mistress,  and  Catherine  made  the  reflection 
that  she  had  never  seen  him  so  excited.  It  gave  her 
pleasure,  somehow,  to  note  this  fact.  He  asked  her 
questions  about  her  travels,  to  some  of  which  she 
was  unable  to  reply,  for  she  had  forgotten  the  names 
of  places  and  the  order  of  her  father's  journey.  But 
for  the  moment  she  was  so  happy,  so  lifted  up  by 
the  belief  that  her  troubles  at  last  were  over,  that 
she  forgot  to  be  ashamed  of  her  meagre  answers. 
It  seemed  to  her  now  that  she  could  marry  him 
without  the  remnant  of  a  scruple,  or  a  single  tremor 
save  those  that  belonged  to  joy.  Without  waiting 
for  him  to  ask,  she  told  him  that  her  father  had 
come  back  in  exactly  the  same  state  of  mind — that 
he  had  not  yielded  an  inch. 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  195 

"  We  must  not  expect  it  now,"  she  said,  "  and  we 
must  do  without  it." 

Morris  sat  looking  and  smiling.  "  My  poor,  dear 
girl !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  You  mustn't  pity  me,"  said  Catherine.  "  I  don't 
mind  it  now;  I  am  used  to  it." 

Morris  continued  to  smile,  and  then  he  got  up 
and  walked  about  again.  "  You  had  better  let  me 
try  him." 

"  Try  to  bring  him  over  ?  You  would  only  make 
him  worse,"  Catherine  answered,  resolutely. 

"  You  say  that  because  I  managed  it  so  badly  be- 
fore. But  I  should  manage  it  differently  now.  I 
am  much  wiser ;  I  have  had  a  year  to  think  of  it. 
I  have  more  tact." 

"Is  that  what  you  have  been  thinking  of  for  a 
year?" 

"  Much  of  the  time.  You  see,  the  idea  sticks  in 
my  crop.  I  don't  like  to  be  beaten." 

"  How  are  you  beaten  if  we  marry  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  am  not  beaten  on  the  main  issue ; 
but  I  am,  don't  you  see  ?  on  all  the  rest  of  it — on 
the  question  of  my  reputation,  of  my  relations  with 
your  father,  of  my  relations  with  my  own  children, 
if  we  should  have  any." 

"  We  shall  have  enough  for  our  children ;  we 
shall  have  enough  for  everything.  Don't  you  ex- 
pect to  succeed  in  business  ?" 

"  Brilliantly,  and  we  shall  certainly  be  very  com- 
fortable. But  it  isn't  of  the  mere  material  comfort 
I  speak ;  it  is  of  the  moral  comfort,"  said  Morris — 
"  of  the  intellectual  satisfaction." 

"I  have  great  moral  comfort  now,"  Catherine 
declared,  very  simply. 


196  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

"Of  course  you  have.  Bat  with  me  it  is  differ- 
ent. I  have  staked  my  pride  on  proving  to  your 
father  that  he  is  wrong,  and  now  that  I  am  at  the 
head  of  a  flourishing  business,  I  can  deal  with  him 
as  an  equal.  I  have  a  capital  plan — do  let  me  go  at 
him !" 

He  stood  before  her  with  his  bright  face,  his 
jaunty  air,  his  hands  in  his  pockets ;  and  she  got  up, 
with  her  eyes  resting  on  his  own.  "  Please  don't, 
Morris ;  please  don't,"  she  said ;  and  there  was  a 
certain  mild,  sad  firmness  in  her  tone  which  he 
heard  for  the  first  time.  "  We  must  ask  no  favors 
of  him — we  must  ask  nothing  more.  He  won't  re- 
lent, and  nothing  good  will  come  of  it.  I  know  it 
now — I  have  a  very  good  reason." 

"  And  pray  what  is  your  reason  ?" 

She  hesitated  to  bring  it  out,  but  at  last  it  came. 
"  He  is  not  very  fond  of  me." 

"  Oh,  bother  !"  cried  Morris,  angrily. 

"  I  wouldn't  say  such  a  thing  without  being  sure. 
I  saw  it,  I  felt  it,  in  England,  just  before  he  came 
away.  He  talked  to  me  one  night — the  last  night 
— and  then  it  came  over  me.  You  can  tell  when 
a  person  feels  that  way.  I  wouldn't  accuse  him  if 
he  hadn't  made  me  feel  that  way.  I  don't  accuse 
him  ;  I  just  tell  you  that  that's  how  it  is.  He  can't 
help  it ;  we  can't  govern  our  affections.  Do  I  gov- 
ern mine?  Mightn't  he  say  that  to  me?  It's  be- 
cause he  is  so  fond  of  my  mother,  whom  we  lost  so 
long  ago.  She  was  beautiful,  and  very,  very  brill- 
iant ;  he  is  always  thinking  of  her.  I  am  not  at 
all  like  her ;  Aunt  Penniman  has  told  me  that.  Of 
course  it  isn't  my  fault ;  but  neither  is  it  his  fault. 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  197 

All  I  mean  is,  it's  true ;  and  it's  a  stronger  reason 
for  his  never  being  reconciled  than  simply  his  dis- 
like for  you." 

" '  Simply  f  "  cried  Morris,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  am 
much  obliged  for  that." 

"  I  don't  mind  about  his  disliking  you  now ;  I 
mind  everything  less.  I  feel  differently;  I  feel 
separated  from  my  father." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  Morris,  "  you  are  a  queer 
family." 

"Don't  say  that  —  don't  say  anything  unkind," 
the  girl  entreated.  "  You  must  be  very  kind  to  me 
now,  because,  Morris,  because  " — and  she  hesitated 
a  moment — "  because  I  have  done  a  great  deal  for 
you." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that,  my  dear." 

She  had  spoken  up  to  this  moment  without  ve- 
hemence or  outward  sign  of  emotion,  gently,  reason- 
ingly,  only  trying  to  explain.  But  her  emotion  had 
been  ineffectually  smothered,  and  it  betrayed  itself 
at  last  in  the  trembling  of  her  voice.  "  It  is  a  great 
thing  to  be  separated  like  that  from  your  father, 
when  you  have  worshipped  him  before.  It  has 
made  me  very  unhappy ;  or  it  would  have  made  me 
so  if  I  didn't  love  you.  You  can  tell  when  a  per- 
son speaks  to  you  as  if — as  if — " 

"  As  if  what  ?" 

"  As  if  they  despised  you !"  said  Catherine,  pas- 
sionately. "He  spoke  that  way  the  night  before 
we  sailed.  It  wasn't  much,  but  it  was  enough,  and 
I  thought  of  it  on  the  voyage  all  the  time.  Then  I 
made  up  my  mind.  I  will  never  ask  him  for  any- 
thing again,  or  expect  anything  from  him.  It  would 


198  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

not  be  natural  now.  We  must  be  very  happy  to- 
gether, and  we  must  not  seem  to  depend  upon  his 
forgiveness.  And,  Morris,  Morris,  you  must  never 
despise  me !" 

This  was  an  easy  promise  to  make,  and  Morris 
made  it  with  fine  effect.  But  for  the  moment  he 
undertook  nothing  more  onerous. 


CHAPTEK  XXVII. 

THE  Doctor,  of  course,  on  his  return,  had  a  good 
deal  of  talk  with  his  sisters.  He  was  at  no  great 
pains  to  narrate  his  travels  or  to  communicate  his 
impressions  of  distant  lands  to  Mrs.  Penniman,  upon 
whom  he  contented  himself  with  bestowing  a  me- 
mento of  his  enviable  experience  in  the  shape  of  a 
velvet  gown.  But  he  conversed  with  her  at  some 
length  about  matters  nearer  home,  and  lost  no  time 
in  assuring  her  that  he  was  still  an  inflexible  father. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  have  seen  a  great  deal  of 
Mr.  Townsend,  and  done  your  best  to  console  him 
for  Catherine's  absence,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  ask  you, 
and  you  needn't  deny  it.  I  wouldn't  put  the  ques- 
tion to  you  for  the  world,  and  expose  you  to  the  in- 
convenience of  having  to — a — excogitate  an  answer. 
No  one  has  betrayed  you,  and  there  has  been  no 
spy  upon  your  proceedings.  Elizabeth  has  told  no 
tales,  and  has  never  mentioned  you  except  to  praise 
your  good  looks  and  good  spirits.  The  thing  is 
simply  an  inference  of  my  own — an  induction,  as 
the  philosophers  say.  It  seems  to  me  likely  that 
you  would  have  offered  an  asylum  to  an  interesting 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  199 

sufferer.  Mr.  Townsend  has  been  a  good  deal  in 
the  house ;  there  is  something  in  the  house  that  tells 
me  so.  We  doctors,  you  know,  end  by  acquiring 
fine  perceptions,  and  it  is  impressed  upon  my  sen- 
sorium  that  he  has  sat  in  these  chairs,  in  a  very  easy 
attitude,  and  warmed  himself  at  that  fire.  I  don't 
grudge  him  the  comfort  of  it ;  it  is  the  only  one  he 
will  ever  enjoy  at  my  expense.  It  seems  likely,  in- 
deed, that  I  shall  be  able  to  economize  at  his  own. 
I  don't  know  what  you  may  have  said  to  him,  or 
what  you  may  say  hereafter ;  but  I  should  like  you 
to  know  that  if  you  have  encouraged  him  to  believe 
that  he  will  gain  anything  by  hanging  on,  or  that 
I  have  budged  a  hair-breadth  from  the  position  I 
took  up  a  year  ago,  you  have  played  him  a  trick  for 
which  he  may  exact  reparation.  I'm  not  sure  that 
he  may  not  bring  a  suit  against  you.  Of  course  you 
have  done  it  conscientiously ;  you  have  made  your- 
self believe  that  I  can  be  tired  out.  This  is  the 
most  baseless  hallucination  that  ever  visited  the 
brain  of  a  genial  optimist.  I  am  not  in  the  least 
tired ;  I  am  as  fresh  as  when  I  started ;  I  am  good 
for  fifty  years  yet.  Catherine  appears  not  to  have 
budged  an  inch  either;  she  is  equally  fresh;  so  we 
are  about  where  we  were  before.  This,  however, 
you  know  as  well  as  I.  What  I  wish  is  simply  to 
give  you  notice  of  my  own  state  of  mind.  Take  it 
to  heart,  dear  Lavinia.  Beware  of  the  just  resent- 
ment of  a  deluded  fortune-hunter !" 

"  I  can't  say  I  expected  it,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman. 
"And  I  had  a  sort  of  foolish  hope  that  you  would 
come  home  without  that  odious  ironical  tone  with 
which  you  treat  the  most  sacred  subjects." 


200  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

"  Don't  undervalue  irony ;  it  is  often  of  great  use. 
It  is  not,  however,  always  necessary,  and  I  will  show 
you  how  gracefully  I  can  lay  it  aside.  I  should  like 
to  know  whether  you  think  Morris  Townsend  will 
hang  on  ?" 

"I  will  answer  you  with  your  own  weapons," 
said  Mrs.  Penniman.  "  You  had  better  wait  and 
see." 

"Do  you  call  such  a  speech  as  that  one  of  my 
own  weapons  ?  I  never  said  anything  so  rough." 

"  He  will  hang  on  long  enough  to  make  you  very 
uncomfortable,  then." 

"  My  dear  Lavinia,"  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  "  do 
you  call  that  irony  ?  I  call  it  pugilism." 

Mrs.  Penniman,  however,  in  spite  of  her  pugilism, 
was  a  good  deal  frightened,  and  she  took  counsel 
of  her  fears.  Her  brother  meanwhile  took  counsel, 
with  many  reservations,  of  Mrs.  Almond,  to  whom 
he  was  no  less  generous  than  to  Lavinia,  and  a  good 
deal  more  communicative. 

"  I  suppose  she  has  had  him  there  all  the  while," 
he  said.  "  I  must  look  into  the  state  of  my  wine. 
You  needn't  mind  telling  me  now ;  I  have  already 
said  all  I  mean  to  say  to  her  on  the  subject." 

"  I  believe  he  was  in  the  house  a  good  deal,"  Mrs. 
Almond  answered.  "  But  you  must  admit  that  your 
leaving  Lavinia  quite  alone  was  a  great  change  for 
her,  and  that  it  was  natural  she  should  want  some 
society." 

"  I  do  admit  that,  and  that  is  why  I  shall  make 
no  row  about  the  wine ;  I  shall  set  it  down  as  com- 
pensation to  Lavinia.  She  is  capable  of  telling  me 
that  she  drank  it  all  herself.  Think  of  the  incon- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  201 

ceivable  bad  taste,  in  the  circumstances,  of  that  fel- 
low making  free  with  the  house — or  coming  there 
at  all !  If  that  doesn't  describe  him,  he  is  indescrib- 
able." 

"His  plan  is  to  get  what  he  can.  Lavinia  will 
have  supported  him  for  a  year,"  said  Mrs.  Almond. 
"  It's  so  much  gained." 

"  She  will  have  to  support  him  for  the  rest  of  his 
life,  then,"  cried  the  Doctor ;  "  but  without  wine, 
as  they  say  at  the  tables  cPhote" 

"  Catherine  tells  me  he  has  set  up  a  business,  and 
is  making  a  great  deal  of  money." 

The  Doctor  stared.  "  She  has  not  told  me  that 
—and  Lavinia  didn't  deign.  Ah  !"  he  cried,  "  Cath- 
erine has  given  me  up.  Not  that  it  matters,  for  all 
that  the  business  amounts  to." 

"  She  has  not  given  up  Mr.  Townsend,"  said  Mrs. 
Almond ;  "  I  saw  that  in  the  first  half-minute.  She 
has  come  home  exactly  the  same." 

"  Exactly  the  same ;  not  a  grain  more  intelligent. 
She  didn't  notice  a  stick  or  a  stone  all  the  while  we 
were  away — not  a  picture  nor  a  view,  not  a  statue 
nor  a  cathedral." 

"  How  could  she  notice  ?  She  had  other  things 
to  think  of ;  they  are  never  for  an  instant  out  of  her 
mind.  She  touches  me  very  much." 

"  She  would  touch  me  if  she  didn't  irritate  me. 
That's  the  effect  she  has  upon  me  now.  I  have  tried 
everything  upon  her;  I  really  have  been  quite 
merciless.  But  it  is  of  no  use  whatever;  she  is 
absolutely  glued.  I  have  passed,  in  consequence, 
into  the  exasperated  stage.  At  first  I  had  a  good 
deal  of  a  certain  genial  curiosity  about  it ;  I  wanted 


202  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

to  see  if  she  really  would  stick.  But,  good  Lord, 
one's  curiosity  is  satisfied !  I  see  she  is  capable  of 
it,  and  now  she  can  let  go." 

"  She  will  never  let  go,"  said  Mrs.  Almond. 

"  Take  care,  or  you  will  exasperate  me  too.  If 
she  doesn't  let  go,  she  will  be  shaken  off  —  sent 
tumbling  into  the  dust.  That's  a  nice  position  for 
my  daughter.  She  can't  see  that  if  you  are  going 
to  be  pushed,  you  had  better  jump.  And  then  she 
will  complain  of  her  bruises." 

"  She  will  never  complain,"  said  Mrs.  Almond. 

"  That  I  shall  object  to  even  more.  But  the  deuce 
will  be  that  I  can't  prevent  anything." 

"  If  she  is  to  have  a  fall,"  said  Mrs.  Almond,  with 
a  gentle  laugh,  "  we  must  spread  as  many  carpets  as 
we  can."  And  she  carried  out  this  idea  by  showing 
a  great  deal  of  motherly  kindness  to  the  girl. 

Mrs.  Penniman  immediately  wrote  to  Morris 
Townsend.  The  intimacy  between  these  two  was 
by  this  time  consummate,  but  I  must  content  myself 
with  noting  but  a  few  of  its  features.  Mrs.  Penni- 
man's  own  share  in  it  was  a  singular  sentiment, 
which  might  have  been  misinterpreted,  but  which 
in  itself  was  not  discreditable  to  the  poor  lady.  It 
was  a  romantic  interest  in  this  attractive  and  unfort- 
unate young  man,  and  yet  it  was  not  such  an  inter- 
est as  Catherine  might  have  been  jealous  of.  Mrs. 
Penniman  had  not  a  particle  of  jealousy  of  her  niece. 
For  herself,  she  felt  as  if  she  were  Morris's  mother 
or  sister — a  mother  or  sister  of  an  emotional  tem- 
perament— and  she  had  an  absorbing  desire  to  make 
him  comfortable  and  happy.  She  had  striven  to  do 
so  during  the  year  that  her  brother  left  her  an  open 
field,  and  her  efforts  had  been  attended  with  the 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  203 

success  that  has  been  pointed  out.  She  had  never 
had  a  child  of  her  own,  and  Catherine,  whom  she 
had  done  her  best  to  invest  with  the  importance  that 
would  naturally  belong  to  a  youthful  Penniman,  had 
only  partly  rewarded  her  zeal.  Catherine,  as  an  ob- 
ject of  affection  and  solicitude,  had  never  had  that 
picturesque  charm  which  (as  it  seemed  to  her)  would 
have  been  a  natural  attribute  of  her  own  progeny. 
Even  the  maternal  passion  in  Mrs.  Penniman  would 
have  been  romantic  and  factitious,  and  Catherine 
was  not  constituted  to  inspire  a  romantic  passion. 
Mrs.  Penniman  was  as  fond  of  her  as  ever,  but  she 
had  grown  to  feel  that  with  Catherine  she  lacked 
opportunity.  Sentimentally  speaking,  therefore,  she 
had  (though  she  had  not  disinherited  her  niece) 
adopted  Morris  Townsend,  who  gave  her  opportuni- 
ty in  abundance.  She  would  have  been  very  happy 
to  have  a  handsome  and  tyrannical  son,  and  would 
have  taken  an  extreme  interest  in  his  love  affairs. 
This  was  the  light  in  which  she  had  come  to  regard 
Morris,  who  had  conciliated  her  at  first,  and  made 
his  impression  by  his  delicate  and  calculated  defer- 
ence— a  sort  of  exhibition  to  which  Mrs.  Penniman 
was  particularly  sensitive.  He  had  largely  abated 
his  deference  afterward,  for  he  economized  his  re- 
sources, but  the  impression  was  made,  and  the  young 
man's  very  brutality  came  to  have  a  sort  of  filial 
value.  If  Mrs.  Penniman  had  had  a  son,  she  would 
probably  have  been  afraid  of  him,  and  at  this  stage 
of  our  narrative  she  was  certainly  afraid  of  Morris 
Townsend.  This  was  one  of  the  results  of  his 
domestication  in  Washington  Square.  He  took  his 
ease  with  her — as,  for  that  matter,  he  would  certain- 
ly have  done  with  his  own  mother. 


204  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  letter  was  a  word  of  warning;  it  informed 
him  that  the  Doctor  had  come  home  more  imprac- 
ticable than  ever.  She  might  have  reflected  that 
Catherine  would  supply  him  with  all  the  informa- 
tion he  needed  on  this  point ;  but  we  know  that 
Mrs.  Penniman's  reflections  were  rarely  just ;  and, 
moreover,  she  felt  that  it  was  not  for  her  to  depend 
on  what  Catherine  might  do.  She  was  to  do  her 
duty,  quite  irrespective  of  Catherine.  I  have  said 
that  her  young  friend  took  his  ease  with  her,  and  it 
is  an  illustration  of  the  fact  that  he  made  no  answer 
to  her  letter.  He  took  note  of  it  amply;  but  he 
lighted  his  cigar  with  it,  and  he  waited,  in  tranquil 
confidence  that  he  should  receive  another.  "His 
state  of  mind  really  freezes  my  blood,"  Mrs.  Penni- 
man  had  written,  alluding  to  her  brother ;  and  it 
would  have  seemed  that  upon  this  statement  she 
could  hardly  improve.  Nevertheless,  she  wrote 
again,  expressing  herself  with  the  aid  of  a  different 
figure.  '  "  His  hatred  of  you  burns  with  a  lurid  flame 
— the  flame  that  never  dies,"  she  wrote.  "But  it 
doesn't  light  up  the  darkness  of  your  future.  If 
my  affection  could  do  so,  all  the  years  of  your  life 
would  be  an  eternal  sunshine.  I  can  extract  noth- 
ing from  C. ;  she  is  so  terribly  secretive,  like  her 
father.  She  seems  to  expect  to  be  married  very 
soon,  and  has  evidently  made  preparations  in  Eu- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  205 

rope — quantities  of  clothing,  ten  pairs  of  shoes,  etc. 
My  dear  friend,  you  cannot  set  up  in  married  life 
simply  with  a  few  pairs  of  shoes,  can  you  ?  Tell 
me  what  you  think  of  this.  I  am  intensely  anxious 
to  see  you,  I  have  so  much  to  say.  I  miss  you 
dreadfully  ;  the  house  seems  so  empty  without  you. 
What  is  the  news  down  town  ?  Is  the  business  ex- 
tending ? — that  dear  little  business :  I  think  it's  so 
brave  of  you!  Couldn't  I  come  to  your  office? — 
just  for  three  minutes  ?  I  might  pass  for  a  customer 
— is  that  what  you  call  them  ?  I  might  come  in  to 
buy  something — some  shares  or  some  railroad  things. 
Tell  me  what  you  think  ofthisplcvn.  I  would  carry 
a  little  reticule,  like  a  woman  of  the  people." 

In  spite  of  the  suggestion  about  the  reticule,  Mor- 
ris appeared  to  think  poorly  of  the  plan,  for  he  gave 
Mrs.  Penniman  no  encouragement  whatever  to  visit 
his  office,  which  he  had  already  represented  to  her 
as  a  place  peculiarly  and  unnaturally  difficult  to  find. 
But  as  she  persisted  in  desiring  an  interview — up  to 
the  last,  after  months  of  intimate  colloquy,  she  called 
these  meetings  "  interviews  " — he  agreed  that  they 
should  take  a  walk  together,  and  was  even  kind 
enough  to  leave  his  office  for  this  purpose  during 
the  hours  at  which  business  might  have  been  sup- 
posed to  be  liveliest.  It  was  no  surprise  to  him, 
when  they  met  at  a  street  corner,  in  a  region  of 
empty  lots  and  undeveloped  pavements  (Mrs.  Penni- 
man being  attired  as  much  as  possible  like  a  "  wom- 
an of  the  people  "),  to  find  that,  in  spite  of  her  ur- 
genc}7,  what  she  chiefly  had  to  convey  to  him  was 
the  assurance  of  her  sympathy.  Of  such  assurances, 
however,  he  had  already  a  voluminous  collection,  and 


206  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

it  would  not  have  been  worth  his  while  to  forsake  a 
fruitful  avocation  merely  to  hear  Mrs.  Penniman  say, 
for  the  thousandth  time,  that  she  had  made  his  cause 
her  own.  Morris  had  something  of  his  own  to  say. 
It  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  bring  out,  and  while  he 
turned  it  over,  the  difficulty  made  him  acrimonious. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  perfectly  that  he  combines  the 
properties  of  a  lump  of  ice  and  a  red-hot  coal,"  he 
observed.  "  Catherine  has  made  it  thoroughly  clear, 
and  you  have  told  me  so  till  I  am  sick  of  it.  You 
needn't  tell  rne  again  ;  I  am  perfectly  satisfied.  He 
will  never  give  us  a  penny  ;  I  regard  that  as  mathe- 
matically proved." 

Mrs.  Penniman  at  this  point  had  an  inspiration. 

"Couldn't  you  bring  a  lawsuit  against  him?" 
She  wondered  that  this  simple  expedient  had  never 
occurred  to  her  before. 

" I  will  bring  a  lawsuit  against  you"  said  Morris, 
"if  you  ask  me  any  more  such  aggravating  ques- 
tions. A  man  should  know  when  he  is  beaten,"  he 
added,  in  a  moment.  "  I  must  give  her  up !" 

Mrs.  Penniman  received  this  declaration  in  silence, 
though  it  made  her  heart  beat  a  little.  It  found  her 
by  no  means  unprepared,  for  she  had  accustomed 
herself  to  the  thought  that,  if  Morris  should  decided- 
ly not  be  able  to  get  her  brother's  money,  it  would 
not  do  for  him  to  marry  Catherine  without  it.  "  It 
would  not  do,"  was  a  vague  way  of  putting  the 
thing ;  but  Mrs.  Penniman's  natural  affection  com- 
pleted the  idea,  which,  though  it  had  not  as  yet  been 
so  crudely  expressed  between  them  as  in  the  form 
that  Morris  had  just  given  it,  had  nevertheless  been 
implied  so  often,  in  certain  easy  intervals  of  talk,  as 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  207 

he  sat  stretching  his  legs  in  the  Doctor's  well-stuffed 
arm-chairs,  that  she  had  grown  first  to  regard  it  with 
an  emotion  which  she  flattered  herself  was  philo- 
sophic, and  then  to  have  a  secret  tenderness  for  it. 
The  fact  that  she  kept  her  tenderness  secret  proves, 
of  course,  that  she  was  ashamed  of  it ;  but  she  man- 
aged to  blink  her  shame  by  reminding  herself  that 
she  was,  after  all,  the  official  protector  of  her  niece's 
marriage.  Her  logic  would  scarcely  have  passed 
muster  with  the  Doctor.  In  the  first  place,  Morris 
must  get  the  money,  and  she  would  help  him  to  it. 
In  the  second,  it  was  plain  it  would  never  come  to 
him,  and  it  would  be  a  grievous  pity  he  should  mar- 
ry without  it — a  young  man  who  might  so  easily 
find  something  better.  After  her  brother  had  de- 
livered himself,  on  his  return  from  Europe,  of  that 
incisive  little  address  that  has  been  quoted,  Morris's 
cause  seemed  so  hopeless  that  Mrs.  Penniman  fixed 
her  attention  exclusively  upon  the  latter  branch  of 
her  argument.  If  Morris  had  been  her  son,  she 
would  certainly  have  sacrificed  Catherine  to  a  supe- 
rior conception  of  his  future ;  and  to  be  ready  to  do 
so,  as  the  case  stood,  was  therefore  even  a  finer  de- 
gree of  devotion.  Nevertheless,  it  checked  her 
breath  a  little  to  have  the  sacrificial  knife,  as  it  were, 
suddenly  thrust  into  her  hand. 

Morris  walked  along  a  moment,  and  then  he  re- 
peated, harshly, 

"  I  must  give  her  up !" 

"  I  think  I  understand  you,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman, 
gently. 

"I  certainly,  say  it  distinctly  enough  —  brutally 
and  vulgarly  enough." 


208  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

He  was  ashamed  of  himself,  and  his  shame  was 
uncomfortable ;  and  as  he  was  extremely  intolerant 
of  discomfort,  he  felt  vicious  and  cruel.  He  wanted 
to  abuse  somebody,  and  he  began,  cautiously  —  for 
he  was  always  cautious — with  himself. 

"  Couldn't  you  take  her  down  a  little  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Take  her  down «" 

"  Prepare  her — try  and  ease  me  off." 

Mrs.  Penniman  stopped,  looking  at  him  very 
solemnly. 

"  My  poor  Morris,  do  you  know  how  much  she 
loves  you  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  don't  want  to  know.  I  have  al- 
ways tried  to  keep  from  knowing.  It  would  be  too 
painful." 

"  She  will  suffer  much,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman. 

"You  must  console  her.  If  you  are  as  good  a 
friend  to  me  as  you  pretend  to  be,  you  will  manage 
it." 

Mrs.  Penniman  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"  You  talk  of  my  '  pretending '  to  like  you  ;  but 
I  can't  pretend  to  hate  you.  I  can  only  tell  her  I 
think  very  highly  of  you ;  and  how  will  that  console 
her  for  losing  you  ?" 

"  The  Doctor  will  help  you.  He  will  be  delight- 
ed at  the  thing  being  broken  off;  and  as  he  is  a 
knowing  fellow,  he  will  invent  something  to  com- 
fort her." 

"  He  will  invent  a  new  torture,"  cried  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman. "  Heaven  deliver  her  from  her  father's 
comfort !  It  will  consist  of  his  crowing  over  her, 
and  saying, '  I  always  told  you  so  !' ': 

Morris  colored  a  most  uncomfortable  red. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  209 

"If  you  don't  console  her  any  better  than  you 
console  me,  you  certainly  won't  be  of  much  use. 
It's  a  damned  disagreeable  necessity;  I  feel  it  ex- 
tremely, and  you  ought  to  make  it  easy  for  me." 

"  I  will  be  your  friend  for  life,"  Mrs.  Penniman 
declared. 

"  Be  my  friend  now!"  and  Morris  walked  on. 

She  went  with  him  ;  she  was  almost  trembling. 

"  Should  you  like  me  to  tell  her  ?"  she  asked. 

"  You  mustn't  tell  her,  but  you  can — you  can — " 
And  he  hesitated,  trying  to  think  what  Mrs.  Penni- 
man could  do.  "  You  can  explain  to  her  why  it  is. 
It's  because  I  can't  bring  myself  to  step  in  between 
her  and  her  father — to  give  him  the  pretext  he 
grasps  at  so  eagerly  (it's  a  hideous  sight !)  for  de- 
priving her  of  her  rights." 

Mrs.  Penniman  felt  with  remarkable  promptitude 
the  charm  of  this  formula. 

"  That's  so  like  you,"  she  said ;  "  it's  so  finely 
felt." 

Morris  gave  his  stick  an  angry  swing. 

"  Oh  damnation  !"  he  exclaimed,  perversely. 

Mrs.  Penniman,  however,  was  not  discouraged. 

"It  may  turn  out  better  than  you  think.  Cath- 
erine is,  after  all,  so  very  peculiar."  And  she 
thought  she  might  take  it  upon  herself  to  assure 
him  that,  whatever  happened,  the  girl  would  be  very 
quiet — she  wouldn't  make  a  noise.  They  extend- 
ed their  walk,  and  while  they  proceeded  Mrs.  Penni- 
man took  upon  herself  other  things  besides,  and 
ended  by  having  assumed  a  considerable  burden; 
Morris  being  ready  enough,  as  may  be  imagined,  to 
put  everything  off  upon  her.  But  he  was  not  for 

14 


210  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

a  single  instant  the  dupe  of  her  blundering  alacrity ; 
he  knew  that  of  what  she  promised  she  was  com- 
petent to  perform  but  an  insignificant  fraction,  and 
the  more  she  professed  her  willingness  to  serve  him, 
the  greater  fool  he  thought  her. 

"  What  will  you  do  if  you  don't  marry  her  ?"  she 
ventured  to  inquire  in  the  course  of  this  conversation. 

"  Something  brilliant,"  said  Morris.  "  Shouldn't 
you  like  me  to  do  something  brilliant  ?" 

The  idea  gave  Mrs.  Penniman  exceeding  pleasure. 

"  I  shall  feel  sadly  taken  in  if  you  don't." 

"  I  shall  have  to,  to  make  up  for  this.  This  isn't 
at  all  brilliant,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Penniman  mused  a  little,  as  if  there  might 
be  some  way  of  making  out  that  it  was;  but  she 
had  to  give  up  the  attempt,  and,  to  carry  off  the 
awkwardness  of  failure,  she  risked  a  new  inquiry. 

"  Do  you  mean — do  you  mean  another  marriage  ?" 

Morris  greeted  this  question  with  a  reflection 
which  was  hardly  the  less  impudent  from  being 
inaudible.  "  Surely  women  are  more  crude  than 
men  !"  And  then  he  answered,  audibly, 

"Never  in  the  world  !" 

Mrs.  Penniman  felt  disappointed  and  snubbed, 
and  she  relieved  herself  in  a  little  vaguely  sarcastic 
cry.  He  was  certainly  perverse. 

"  I  give  her  up,  not  for  another  woman,  but  for  a 
wider  career,"  Morris  announced. 

This  was  very  grand ;  but  still  Mrs.  Penniman, 
who  felt  that  she  had  exposed  herself,  was  faintly 
rancorous. 

"  Do  you  mean  never  to  come  to  see  her  again  ?" 
she  asked,  with  some  sharpness. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  211 

"  Oh  no,  I  shall  come  again ;  but  what  is  the  use 
of  dragging  it  out?  I  have  been  four  times  since 
she  came  back,  and  it's  terribly  awkward  work.  I 
can't  keep  it  up  indefinitely  ;  she  oughtn't  to  expect 
that,  you  know.  A  woman  should  never  keep  a 
man  dangling,"  he  added,  finely. 

"Ah,  but  you  must  have  your  last  parting !"  urged 
his  companion,  in  whose  imagination  the  idea  of  last 
partings  occupied  a  place  inferior  in  dignity  only  to 
that  of  first  meetings. 


XXIX. 

HE  came  again,  without  managing  the  last  part- 
ing ;  and  again  and  again,  without  finding  that  Mrs. 
Penniman  had  as  yet  done  much  to  pave  the  path 
of  retreat  with  flowers.  It  was  devilish  awkward, 
as  he  said,  and  he  felt  a  lively  animosity  for  Cath- 
erine's aunt,  who,  as  he  had  now  quite  formed  the 
habit  of  saying  to  himself,  had  dragged  him  into 
the  mess,  and  was  bound  in  common  charity  to  get 
him  out  of  it.  Mrs.  Penniman,  to  tell  the  truth,  had, 
in  the  seclusion  of  her  own  apartment — and,  I  may 
add,  amid  the  suggestiveness  of  Catherine's,  which 
wore  in  those  days  the  appearance  of  that  of  a  young 
lady  laying  out  her  trousseau — Mrs.  Penniman  had 
measured  her  responsibilities,  and  taken  fright  at 
their  magnitude.  The  task  of  preparing  Catherine 
and  easing  off  Morris  presented  difficulties  which 
increased  in  the  execution,  and  even  led  the  impul- 
sive Lavinia  to  ask  herself  whether  the  modification 


212  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

of  the  young  man's  original  project  had  been  con- 
ceived in  a  happy  spirit.  A  brilliant  future,  a  wider 
career,  a  conscience  exempt  from  the  reproach  of 
interference  between  a  young  lady  and  her  natural 
rights — these  excellent  things  might  be  too  trou- 
blesomely  purchased.  From  Catherine  herself  Mrs. 
Penniman  received  no  assistance  whatever ;  the  poor 
girl  was  apparently  without  suspicion  of  her  danger. 
She  looked  at  her  lover  with  eyes  of  undiminished 
trust,  and  though  she  had  less  confidence  in  her  aunt 
than  in  a  young  man  with  whom  she  had  exchanged 
so  many  tender  vows,  she  gave  her  no  handle  for 
explaining  or  confessing.  Mrs.  Penniman,  faltering 
and  wavering,  declared  Catherine  was  very  stupid, 
put  off  the  great  scene,  as  she  would  have  called  it, 
from  day  to  day,  and  wandered  about,  very  uncom- 
fortably, with  her  unexploded  bomb  in  her  hands. 
Morris's  own  scenes  were  very  small  ones  just  now ; 
but  even  these  were  beyond  his  strength.  He  made 
his  visits  as  brief  as  possible,  and,  while  he  sat  with 
his  mistress,  found  terribly  little  to  talk  about.  She 
was  waiting  for  him,  in  vulgar  parlance,  to  name 
the  day;  and  so  long  as  he  was  unprepared  to  be 
explicit  on  this  point,  it  seemed  a  mockery  to  pre- 
tend to  talk  about  matters  more  abstract.  She  had 
no  airs  and  no  arts ;  she  never  attempted  to  disguise 
her  expectancy.  She  was  waiting  on  his  good 
pleasure,  and  would  wait  modestly  and  patiently; 
his  hanging  back  at  this  supreme  time  might  appear 
strange,  but  of  course  he  must  have  a  good  reason 
for  it.  Catherine  would  have  made  a  wife  of  the 
gentle,  old-fashioned  pattern — regarding  reasons  as 
favors  and  windfalls,  but  no  more  expecting  one 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  213 

every  day  than  she  would  have  expected  a  bouquet 
of  camellias.  During  the  period  of  her  engage- 
ment, however,  a  young  lady  even  of  the  most  slen- 
der pretensions  counts  upon  more  bouquets  than  at 
other  times ;  and  there  was  a  want  of  perfume  in 
the  air  at  this  moment  which  at  last  excited  the 
girl's  alarm. 

"Are  you  sick?"  she  asked  of  Morris.  "  You 
seem  so  restless,  and  you  look  pale." 

"  I  am  not  at  all  well,"  said  Morris  ;  and  it  occur- 
red to  him  that,  if  he  could  only  make  her  pity  him 
enough,  he  might  get  off. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  overworked ;  you  oughtn't 
to  work  so  much." 

"  I  must  do  that."  And  then  he  added,  with  a 
sort  of  calculated  brutality,  "  I  don't  want  to  owe 
you  everything." 

"  Ah,  how  can  you  say  that  ?" 

"  I  am  too  proud,"  said  Morris. 

"  Yes — you  are  too  proud." 

"  Well,  you  must  take  me  as  I  am,"  he  went  on ; 
"  you  can  never  change  me." 

"I  don't  want  to  change  you,"  she  said,  gently ; 
"  I  will  take  you  as  you  are."  And  she  stood  look- 
ing at  him. 

"  You  know  people  talk  tremendously  about  a 
man's  marrying  a  rich  girl,"  Morris  remarked.  "  It's 
excessively  disagreeable." 

"  But  I  am  not  rich,"  said  Catherine. 

u  You  are  rich  enough  to  make  me  talked  about." 

"  Of  course  you  are  talked  about.     It's  an  honor." 

"  It's  an  honor  I  could  easily  dispense  with." 

She  was  on  the  point  of  asking  him  whether  it 


214  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

was  not  a  compensation  for  this  annoyance  that  the 
poor  girl  who  had  the  misfortune  to  bring  it  upon 
him  loved  him  so  dearly  and  believed  in  him  so 
truly ;  but  she  hesitated,  thinking  that  this  would 
perhaps  seem  an  exacting  speech,  and  while  she 
hesitated,  he  suddenly  left  her. 

The  next  time  he  came,  however,  she  brought  it 
out,  and  she  told  him  again  that  he  was  too  proud. 
He  repeated  that  he  couldn't  change,  and  this  time 
she  felt  the  impulse  to  say  that  with  a  little  effort 
he  might  change. 

Sometimes  he  thought  that  if  he  could  only  make 
a  quarrel  with  her  it  might  help  him ;  but  the  ques- 
tion was  how  to  quarrel  with  a  young  woman  who 
had  such  treasures  of  concession.  "  I  suppose  you 
think  the  effort  is  all  on  your  side,"  he  broke  out. 
"  Don't  you  believe  that  I  have  my  own  effort  to 
make?" 

"  It's  all  yours  now,"  she  said ;  "  my  effort  is  fin- 
ished and  done  with." 

"  Well,  mine  is  not." 

"  We  must  bear  things  together,"  said  Catherine. 
"  That's  what  we  ought  to  do." 

Morris  attempted  a  natural  smile.  "There  are 
some  things  which  we  can't  very  well  bear  together 
— for  instance,  separation." 

"  Why  do  you  speak  of  separation  ?" 

"Ah !  you  don't  like  it ;  I  knew  you  wouldn't." 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Morris  ?"  she  suddenly 
asked. 

He  fixed  his  eye  on  her  a  moment,  and  for  a  part 
of  that  moment  she  was  afraid  of  it.  "  Will  you 
promise  not  to  make  a  scene  ?" 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  215 

"  A  scene ! — do  I  make  scenes  ?" 

"All  women  do!"  said  Morris,  with  the  tone  of 
large  experience. 

"  I  don't.     Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"If  I  should  say  I  was  going  away  on  business, 
should  you  think  it  very  strange  ?" 

She  wondered  a  moment,  gazing  at  him.  "  Yes 
— no.  Not  if  you  will  take  me  with  you." 

"  Take  you  with  me — on  business  ?" 

"  What  is  your  business  ?  Your  business  is  to  be 
with  me." 

"  I  don't  earn  my  living  with  you,"  said  Morris. 
"  Or,  rather,"  he  cried,  with  a  sudden  inspiration, 
"that's  just  what  I  do  —  or  what  the  world  says  I 
do!" 

This  ought  perhaps  to  have  been  a  great  stroke, 
but  it  miscarried.  "  Where  are  you  going  ?"  Cath- 
erine simply  repeated. 

"  To  New  Orleans  —  about  buying  some  cot- 
ton." 

"  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  go  to  New  Orleans," 
Catherine  said. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  would  take  you  to  a  nest  of 
yellow -fever?"  cried  Morris.  "Do  you  suppose  I 
would  expose  you  at  such  a  time  as  this  ?" 

"  If  there  is  yellow  -  fever,  why  should  you  go  ? 
Morris,  you  must  not  go." 

"  It  is  to  make  six  thousand  dollars,"  said  Morris. 
"  Do  you  grudge  me  that  satisfaction  ?" 

"  We  have  no  need  of  six  thousand  dollars.  You 
think  too  much  about  money." 

"  You  can  afford  to  say  that.  This  is  a  great 
chance;  we  heard  of  it  last  night."  And  he  ex- 


216  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

plained  to  her  in  what  the  chance  consisted  ;  and 
told  her  a  long  story,  going  over  more  than  once 
several  of  the  details,  about  the  remarkable  stroke 
of  business  which  he  and  his  partner  had  planned 
between  them. 

But  Catherine's  imagination,  for  reasons  best 
known  to  herself,  absolutely  refused  to  be  fired. 
"  If  you  can  go  to  New  Orleans,  I  can  go,"  she  said. 
"Why  shouldn't  you  catch  yellow -fever  quite  as 
easily  as  I  ?  I  am  every  bit  as  strong  as  you,  and 
not  in  the  least  afraid  of  any  fever.  When  we  were 
in  Europe  we  were  in  very  unhealthy  places ;  my 
father  used  to  make  me  take  some  pills.  I  never 
caught  anything,  and  I  never  was  nervous.  What 
will  be  the  use  of  six  thousand  dollars  if  you  die  of 
a  fever?  When  persons  are  going  to  be  married 
they  oughtn't  to  think  so  much  about  business. 
You  shouldn't  think  about  cotton  ;  you  should  think 
about  me.  You  can  go  to  New  Orleans  some  other 
time — there  will  always  be  plenty  of  cotton.  It  isn't 
the  moment  to  choose:  we  have  waited  too  long 
already."  She  spoke  more  forcibly  and  volubly 
than  he  had  ever  heard  her,  and  she  held  his  arm  in 
her  two  hands. 

"  You  said  you  wouldn't  make  a  scene,"  cried 
Morris.  "  I  call  this  a  scene." 

"  It's  you  that  are  making  it.  I  have  never  asked 
you  anything  before.  We  have  waited  too  long 
already."  And  it  was  a  comfort  to  her  to  think 
that  she  had  hitherto  asked  so  little;  it  seemed  to 
make  her  right  to  insist  the  greater  now. 

Morris  bethought  himself  a  little.  "  Very  well, 
then ;  we  won't  talk  about  it  any  more.  I  will 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  217 

transact  my  business  by  letter."  And  he  began  to 
smooth  his  hat,  as  if  to  take  leave. 

"You  won't  go?"  and  she  stood  looking  up  at 
him. 

He  could  not  give  up  his  idea  of  provoking  a 
quarrel ;  it  was  so  much  the  simplest  way.  He  bent 
his  eyes  on  her  upturned  face  with  the  darkest  frown 
he  could  achieve.  "  You  are  not  discreet ;  you 
mustn't  bully  me." 

But,  as  usual,  she  conceded  everything.  "  No,  I 
am  not  discreet ;  I  know  I  am  too  pressing.  But 
isn't  it  natural  ?  It  is  only  for  a  moment." 

"  In  a  moment  you  may  do  a  great  deal  of  harm. 
Try  and  be  calmer  the  next  time  I  come." 

"  When  will  you  come  ?" 

"  Do  you  want  to  make  conditions  ?"  Morris  ask- 
ed. "I  will  come  next  Saturday." 

"  Come  to-morrow,"  Catherine  begged ;  "  I  want 
you  to  come  to-morrow.  I  will  be  very  quiet,"  she 
added ;  and  her  agitation  had  by  this  time  become 
so  great  that  the  assurance  was  not  unbecoming.  A 
sudden  fear  had  come  over  her ;  it  was  like  the  solid 
conjunction  of  a  dozen  disembodied  doubts,  and  her 
imagination,  at  a  single  bound,  had  traversed  an 
enormous  distance.  All  her  being,  for  the  mo- 
ment, was  centred  in  the  wish  to  keep  him  in  the 
room. 

Morris  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her  forehead. 
"  When  you  are  quiet,  you  are  perfection,"  he  said  ; 
"  but  when  you  are  violent,  you  are  not  in  charac- 
ter." 

It  was  Catherine's  wish  that  there  should  be  no 
violence  about  her  save  the  beating  of  her  heart. 


218  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

which  she  could  not  help ;  and  she  went  on,  as 
gently  as  possible,  "Will  you  promise  to  come  to- 
morrow ?" 

"I  said  Saturday!"  Morris  answered,  smiling. 
He  tried  a  frown  at  one  moment,  a  smile  at  an- 
other ;  he  was  at  his  wit's  end. 

"Yes,  Saturday  too,"  she  answered,  trying  to 
smile.  "But  to-morrow  first."  He  was  going  to 
the  door,  and  she  went  with  him  quickly.  She 
leaned  her  shoulder  against  it;  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  would  do  anything  to  keep  him. 

"  If  I  am  prevented  from  coming  to-morrow,  you 
will  say  I  have  deceived  you,"  he  said. 

"  How  can  you  be  prevented  ?  You  can  come  if 
you  will." 

"  I  am  a  busy  man — I  am  not  a  dangler !"  cried 
Morris,  sternly. 

His  voice  was  so  hard  and  unnatural  that,  with  a 
helpless  look  at  him,  she  turned  away ;  and  then  he 
quickly  laid  his  hand  on  the  door-knob.  He  felt  as 
if  he  were  absolutely  running  away  from  her.  But 
in  an  instant  she  was  close  to  him  again,  and  mur- 
muring in  a  tone  none  the  less  penetrating  for  being 
low,  "  Morris,  you  are  going  to  leave  me." 

"Yes,  for  a 'little  while." 

"For  how  long?" 

"  Till  you  are  reasonable  again." 

"  I  shall  never  be  reasonable,  in  that  way."  And 
she  tried  to  keep  him  longer ;  it  was  almost  a  strug- 
gle. "  Think  of  what  I  have  done !"  she  broke  out. 
u  Morris,  I  have  given  up  everything." 

"  You  shall  have  everything  back." 

"  You  wouldn't  say  that  if  you  didn't  mean  some- 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  219 

thing.  What  is  it?— what  has  happened ?— what 
have  I  done  ? — what  has  changed  you  ?" 

"  I  will  write  to  you — that  is  better,"  Morris  stam- 
mered. 

"  Ah,  you  won't  come  back !"  she  cried,  bursting 
into  tears. 

"  Dear  Catherine,"  he  said,  "  don't  believe  that. 
I  promise  you  that  you  shall  see  me  again."  And 
he  managed  to  get  away,  and  to  close  the  door  be- 
hind him. 


220 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 


XXX 


IT  was  almost  the  last  outbreak  of  passion  of  her 
life ;  at  least,  she  never  indulged  in  another  that  the 
world  knew  anything  about.  But  this  one  was  long 
and  terrible ;  she  flung  herself  on  the  sofa  and  gave 
herself  up  to  her  grief.  She  hardly  knew  what  had 
happened ;  ostensibly  she  had  only  had  a  difference 
with  her  lover,  as  other  girls  had  had  before,  and 
the  thing  was  not  only  not  a  rupture,  but  she  was 
under  no  obligation  to  regard  it  even  as  a  menace. 
Nevertheless,  she  felt  a  wound,  even  if  he  had  not 
dealt  it ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  a  mask  had  suddenly 
fallen  from  his  face.  He  had  wished  to  get  away 
from  her;  he  had  been  angry  and  cruel,  and  said 
strange  things,  with  strange  looks.  She  was  smoth- 
ered and  stunned ;  she  buried  her  head  in  the  cush- 


WASHINGTON  SQUAKE.  221 

ions,  sobbing  and  talking  to  herself.  But  at  last 
she  raised  herself,  with  the  fear  that  either  her  fa- 
ther or  Mrs.  Penniman  would  come  in ;  and  then  she 
sat  there,  staring  before  her,  while  the  room  grew 
darker.  She  said  to  herself  that  perhaps  he  would 
come  back  to  tell  her  he  had  not  meant  what  he 
said ;  and  she  listened  for  his  ring  at  the  door,  try- 
ing to  believe  that  this  was  probable.  A  long  time 
passed,  but  Morris  remained  absent ;  the  shadows 
gathered ;  the  evening  settled  down  on  the  meagre 
elegance  of  the  light,  clear -colored  room;  the  fire 
went  out.  When  it  had  grown  dark,  Catherine 
went  to  the  window  and  looked  out ;  she  stood  there 
for  half  an  hour,  on  the  mere  chance  that  he  would 
come  up  the  steps.  At  last  she  turned  away,  for 
she  saw  her  father  come  in.  He  had  seen  her  at 
the  window  looking  out,  and  he  stopped  a  moment 
at  the  bottom  of  the  white  steps,  and  gravely,  with 
an  air  of  exaggerated  courtesy,  lifted  his  hat  to  her. 
The  gesture  was  so  incongruous  to  the  condition 
she  was  in,  this  stately  tribute  of  respect  to  a  poor 
girl  despised  and  forsaken  was  so  out  of  place,  that 
the  thing  gave  her  a  kind  of  horror,  and  she  hurried 
away  to  her  room.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
given  Morris  up. 

She  had  to  show  herself  half  an  hour  later,  and 
she  was  sustained  at  table  by  the  immensity  of  her 
desire  that  her  fathei  should  not  perceive  that  any- 
thing had  happened.  This  was  a  great  help  to  her 
afterward,  and  it  served  her  (though  never  as  much 
as  she  supposed)  from  the  first.  On  this  occasion 
Doctor  Sloper  was  rather  talkative.  He  told  a  great 
many  stories  about  a  wonderful  poodle  that  he  had 


222  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

seen  at  the  house  of  an  old  lady  whom  he  visited 
professionally.  Catherine  not  only  tried  to  appear 
to  listen  to  the  anecdotes  of  the  poodle,  but  she  en- 
deavored to  interest  herself  in  them,  so  as  not  to 
think  of  her  scene  with  Morris.  That  perhaps  was 
an  hallucination;  he  was  mistaken,  she  was  jealous; 
people  didn't  change  like  that  from  one  day  to  an- 
other. Then  she  knew  that  she  had  had  doubts  be- 
fore— strange  suspicions,  that  were  at  once  vague 
and  acute — and  that  he  had  been  different  ever  since 
her  return  from  Europe :  whereupon  she  tried  again 
to  listen  to  her  father,  who  told  a  story  so  remarka- 
bly well.  Afterward  she  went  straight  to  her  own 
room ;  it  was  beyond  her  strength  to  undertake  to 
spend  the  evening  with  her  aunt.  All  the  evening, 
alone,  she  questioned  herself.  Her  trouble  was  ter- 
rible ;  but  was  it  a  thing  of  her  imagination,  engen- 
dered by  an  extravagant  sensibility,  or  did  it  repre- 
sent a  clear-cut  reality,  arid  had  the  worst  that  was 
possible  actually  come  to  pass  ?  Mrs.  Penniman, 
with  a  degree  of  tact  that  was  as  unusual  as  it  was 
commendable,  took  the  line  of  leaving  her  alone. 
The  truth  is,  that  her  suspicions  having  been  aroused, 
she  indulged  a  desire,  natural  to  a  timid  person,  that 
the  explosion  should  be  localized.  So  long  as  the 
air  still  vibrated  she  kept  out  of  the  way.  ' 

She  passed  and  repassed  Catherine's  door  several 
times  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  as  if  she  expected 
to  hear  a  plaintive  moan  behind  it.  But  the  room 
remained  perfectly  still;  and  accordingly,  the  last 
thing  before  retiring  to  her  own  couch,  she  applied 
for  admittance.  Catherine  was  sitting  up,  and  had 
a  book  that  she  pretended  to  be  reading.  She  had 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  223 

no  wish  to  go  to  bed,  for  she  had  no  expectation  of 
sleeping.  After  Mrs.  Penniman  had  left  her  she 
sat  up  half  the  night,  and  she  offered  her  visitor  no 
inducement  to  remain.  Her  aunt  came  stealing  in 
very  gently,  and  approached  her  with  great  solem- 
nity. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  in  trouble,  my  dear.  Can  I 
do  anything  to  help  you  ?" 

"  I  am  not  in  any  trouble  whatever,  and  do  not 
need  any  help,"  said  Catherine,  fibbing  roundly,  and 
proving  thereby  that  not  only  our  faults,  but  our 
most  involuntary  misfortunes,  tend  to  corrupt  our 
morals. 

"  Has  nothing  happened  to  you  ?" 

"  Nothing  whatever." 

"  Are  you  very  sure,  dear  ?" 

"Perfectly  sure." 

"And  can  I  really  do  nothing  for  you?" 

"  Nothing,  aunt,  but  kindly  leave  me  alone,"  said 
Catherine. 

Mrs.  Penniman,  though  she  had  been  afraid  of  too 
warm  a  welcome  before,  was  now  disappointed  at  so 
cold  a  one ;  and  in  relating  afterward,  as  she  did  to 
many  persons,  and  with  considerable  variations  of 
detail,  the  history  of  the  termination  of  her  niece's 
engagement,  she  was  usually  careful  to  mention  that 
the  young  lady,  on  a  certain  occasion,  had  "hustled" 
her  out  of  the  room.  It  was  characteristic  of  Mrs. 
Penniman  that  she  related  this  fact,  not  in  the  least 
out  of  malignity  to  Catherine,  whom  she  very  suffi- 
ciently pitied,  but  simply  from  a  natural  disposition 
to  embellish  any  subject  that  she  touched. 

Catherine,  as  I  have  said,  sat  up  half  the  night,  as 


224  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

if  she  still  expected  to  hear  Morris  Townsend  ring 
at  the  door.  On  the  morrow  this  expectation  was 
less  unreasonable ;  but  it  was  not  gratified  by  the 
reappearance  of  the  young  man.  Neither  had  he 
written ;  there  was  not  a  word  of  explanation  or  re- 
assurance. Fortunately  for  Catherine,  she  could  take 
refuge  from  her  excitement,  which  had  now  become 
intense,  in  her  determination  that  her  father  should 
see  nothing  of  it.  How  well  she  deceived  her  fa- 
ther we  shall  have  occasion  to  learn ;  but  her  inno- 
cent arts  were  of  little  avail  before  a  person  of  the 
rare  perspicacity  of  Mrs.  Penniman.  This  lady  easi- 
ly saw  that  she  was  agitated,  and  if  there  was  any 
agitation  going  forward,  Mrs.  Penniman  was  not  a 
person  to  forfeit  her  natural  share  in  it.  She  re- 
turned to  the  charge  the  next  evening,  and  requested 
her  niece  to  confide  in  her — to  unburden  her  heart. 
Perhaps  she  should  be  able  to  explain  certain  things 
that  now  seemed  dark,  and  that  she  knew  more 
about  than  Catherine  supposed.  If  Catherine  had 
been  frigid  the  night  before,  to-day  she  was  haughty. 

"You  are  completely  mistaken,  and  I  have  not 
the  least  idea  what  you  mean.  I  don't  know  what 
you  are  trying  to  fasten  on  me,  and  I  have  never 
had  less  need  of  any  one's  explanations  in  my 
life." 

In  this  way  the  girl  delivered  herself,  and  from 
hour  to  hour  kept  her  aunt  at  bay.  From  hour  to 
hour  Mrs.  Penniman's  curiosity  grew.  She  would 
have  given  her  little  finger  to  know  what  Morris 
had  said  and  done,  what  tone  he  had  taken,  what 
pretext  he  had  found.  She  wrote  to  him,  naturally, 
to  request  an  interview ;  but  she  received,  as  natu- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  225 

rally,  no  answer  to  her  petition.  Morris  was  not  in 
a  writing  mood;  for  Catherine  had  addressed  him 
two  short  notes  which  met  with  no  acknowledg- 
ment. These  notes  were  so  brief  that  I  may  give 
them  entire.  "Won't  you  give  me  some  sign  that 
you  didn't  mean  to  be  so  cruel  as  you  seemed  on 
Tuesday  ?" — that  was  the  first ;  the  other  was  a  lit- 
tle longer.  "If  I  was  unreasonable  or  suspicious 
on  Tuesday — if  I  annoyed  you  or  troubled  you  in 
any  way — I  beg  your  forgiveness,  and  I  promise 
never  again  to  be  so  foolish.  I  am  punished  enough, 
and  I  don't  understand.  Dear  Morris,  you  are  kill- 
ing me !"  These  notes  were  despatched  on  the  Fri- 
day and  Saturday ;  but  Saturday  and  Sunday  passed 
without  bringing  the  poor  girl  the  satisfaction  she 
desired.  Her  punishment  accumulated  ;  she  contin- 
ued to  bear  it,  however,  with  a  good  deal  of  super- 
ficial fortitude.  On  Saturday  morning,  the  Doctor, 
who  had  been  watching  in  silence,  spoke  to  his  sis- 
ter Lavinia. 

"The  thing  has  happened  —  the  scoundrel  has 
backed  out !" 

"  Never !"  cried  Mrs.  Penniman,  who  had  bethought 
herself  what  she  should  say  to  Catherine,  but  was 
not  provided  with  a  line  of  defence  against  her 
brother,  so  that  indignant  negation  was  the  only 
weapon  in  her  hands. 

"  He  has  begged  for  a  reprieve,  then,  if  you  like 
that  better!" 

"It  seems  to  make  you  very  happy  that  your 
daughter's  affections  have  been  trifled  with." 

"It  does,"  said  the  Doctor ;  "  for  I  had  foretold 
it !  It's  a  great  pleasure  to  be  in  the  right." 

15 


226  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

"Your  pleasures  make  one  shudder!"  his  sister 
exclaimed. 

Catherine  went  rigidly  through  her  usual  occu- 
pations ;  that  is,  up  to*  the  point  of  going  with  her 
aunt  to  church  on  Sunday  morning.  She  generally 
went  to  afternoon  service  as  well ;  but  on  this  oc- 
casion her  courage  faltered,  and  she  begged  of  Mrs. 
Penniman  to  go  without  her. 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  a  secret,"  said  Mrs.  Penni- 
man, with  great  significance,  looking  at  her  rather 
grimly. 

"  If  I  have,  I  shall  keep  it  ?"  Catherine  answered, 
turning  away. 

Mrs.  Penniman  started  for  church ;  but  before 
she  had  arrived,  she  stopped  and  turned  back,  and 
before  twenty  minutes  had  elapsed  she  re-entered 
the  house,  looked  into  the  empty  parlors,  and  then 
went  up -stairs  and  knocked  at  Catherine's  door. 
She  got  no  answer;  Catherine  was  not  in  her  room, 
and  Mrs.  Penniman  presently  ascertained  that  she 
was  not  in  the  house.  "  She  has  gone  to  him !  she 
has  fled !"  Lavinia  cried,  clasping  her  hands  with  ad- 
miration and  envy.  But  she  soon  perceived  that 
Catherine  had  taken  nothing  with  her — all  her  per- 
sonal property  in  her  room  was  intact  —  and  then 
she  jumped  at  the  hypothesis  that  the  girl  had  gone 
forth,  not  in  tenderness,  but  in  resentment.  "  She 
has  followed  him  to  his  own  door!  she  has  burst 
upon  him  in  his  own  apartment !"  It  was  in  these 
terms  that  Mrs.  Penniman  depicted  to  herself  her 
niece's  errand,  which,  viewed  in  this  light,  gratified 
her  sense  of  the  picturesque  only  a  shade  less  strong- 
ly than  the  idea  of  a  clandestine  marriage.  To  visit 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  227 

one's  lover,  with  tears  and  reproaches,  at  his  own 
residence,  was  an  image  so  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Penni- 
man's  mind  that  she  felt  a  sort  of  aesthetic  disap- 
pointment at  its  lacking,  in  this  case,  the  harmoni- 
ous accompaniments  of  darkness  and  storm.  A 
quiet  Sunday  afternoon  appeared  an  inadequate  set- 
ting for  it ;  and,  indeed,  Mrs.  Penniman  was  quite 
out  of  humor  with  the  conditions  of  the  time,  which 
passed  very  slowly  as  she  sat  in  the  front  parlor,  in 
her  bonnet  and  her  cashmere  shawl,  awaiting  Cath- 
erine's return. 

This  event  at  last  took  place.  She  saw  her — at 
the  window  —  mount  the  steps,  and  she  went  to 
await  her  in  the  hall,  where  she  pounced  upon  her 
as  soon  as  she  had  entered  the  house,  and  drew  her 
into  the  parlor,  closing  the  door  with  solemnity. 
Catherine  was  flushed,  and  her  eye  was  bright. 
Mrs.  Penniman  hardly  knew  what  to  think. 

"  May  I  venture  to  ask  where  you  have  been  ?" 
she  demanded. 

"  I  have  been  to  take  a  walk,"  said  Catherine. 
"  I  thought  you  had  gone  to  church." 

"  I  did  go  to  church ;  but  the  service  was  shorter 
than  usual.  And  pray  where  did  you  walk  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  !"  said  Catherine. 

"  Your  ignorance  is  most  extraordinary !  Dear 
Catherine,  you  can  trust  me." 

"  What  am  I  to  trust  you  with  ?" 

"  With  your  secret — your  sorrow." 

"  I  have  no  sorrow  !"  said  Catherine,  fiercely. 

"My  poor  child,"  Mrs.  Penniman  insisted,  "you 
can't  deceive  me.  I  know  everything.  I  have  been 
requested  to — a — to  converse  with  you." 


228  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"I  don't  want  to  converse !" 

"It  will  relieve  you.  Don't  you  know  Shak- 
speare's  lines? — 'The  grief  that  does  not  speak!' 
My  dear  girl,  it  is  better  as  it  is !" 

"  What  is  bettter  P  Catherine  asked. 

She  was  really  too  perverse.  A  certain  amount 
of  perversity  was  to  be  allowed  for  in  a  young  lady 
whose  lover  had  thrown  her  over ;  but  not  such  an 
amount  as  would  prove  inconvenient  to  his  apolo- 
gists. "That  you  should  be  reasonable,"  said  Mrs. 
Penniman,  with  some  sternness ;  "  that  you  should 
take  counsel  of  worldly  prudence,  and  submit  to 
practical  considerations;  that  you  should  agree  to 
— a — separate." 

Catherine  had  been  ice  up  to  this  moment,  but  at 
this  word  she  flamed  up.  "Separate?  What  do 
you  know  about  our  separating  P 

Mrs.  Penniman  shook  her  head  with  a  sadness  in 
which  there  was  almost  a  sense  of  injury.  "  Your 
pride  is  my  pride,  and  your  susceptibilities  are  mine. 
I  see  your  side  perfectly,  but  I  also—  '  and  she 
smiled  with  melancholy  suggestiveness — "  I  also  see 
the  situation  as  a  whole !" 

This  suggestiveness  was  lost  upon  Catherine, 
who  repeated  her  violent  inquiry.  "Why  do  you 
talk  about  separation ;  what  do  you  know  about 
it?" 

"  We  must  study  resignation,"  said  Mrs.  Penni- 
man, hesitating,  but  sententious  at  a  venture. 

"  Resignation  to  what  ?" 

"  To  a  change  of — of  our  plans." 

"  My  plans  have  not  changed !"  said  Catherine, 
with  a  little  laugh. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  229 

"Ah,  but  Mr.  Townsend's  have,"  her  aunt  answer- 
ed, very  gently. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

There  was  an  imperious  brevity  in  the  tone  of 
this  inquiry,  against  which  Mrs.  Penniman  felt  bound 
to  protest ;  the  information  with  which  she  had  un- 
dertaken to  supply  her  niece  was  after  all  a  favor. 
She  had  tried  sharpness,  and  she  had  tried  sternness ; 
but  neither  would  do ;  she  was  shocked  at  the  girl's 
obstinacy.  "  Ah  well,"  she  said,  "  if  he  hasn't  told 
you !  .  .  ."  and  she  turned  away. 

Catherine  watched  her  a  moment  in  silence  ;  then 
she  hurried  after  her,  stopping  her  before  she  reach- 
ed the  door.  "  Told  me  what  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? 
What  are  you  hinting  at  and  threatening  me  with  ?" 

"  Isn't  it  broken  off  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Penniman. 

"  My  engagement?     Not  in  the  least !" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  in  that  case.  I  have  spoken 
too  soon !" 

" Too  soon?  Soon  or  late,"  Catherine  broke  out, 
"  you  speak  foolishly  and  cruelly !" 

"  What  has  happened  between  you  then  ?"  asked 
her  aunt,  struck  by  the  sincerity  of  this  cry ;  "  for 
something  certainly  has  happened." 

"  Nothing  has  happened  but  that  I  love  him  more 
and  more !" 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  silent  an  instant.  "  I  suppose 
that's  the  reason  you  went  to  see  him  this  after- 
noon." 

Catherine  flushed  as  if  she  had  been  struck.  "  Yes, 
I  did  go  to  see  him !  But  that's  my  own  business." 

"  Very  well,  then  ;  we  won't  talk  about  it."  And 
Mrs.  Penniman  moved  toward  the  door  again ;  but 


230  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

she  was  stopped  by  a  sudden  imploring  cry  from 
the  girl. 

"  Aunt  Lavinia,  where  has  he  gone  2" 

"  Ah,  you  admit  then  that  he  has  gone  away ! 
Didn't  they  know  at  his  house  ?" 

"  They  said  he  had  left  town.  I  asked  no  more 
questions ;  I  was  ashamed,"  said  Catherine,  simply 
enough. 

"  You  needn't  have  taken  so  compromising  a  step 
if  you  had  had  a  little  more  confidence  in  me,"  Mrs. 
Penniman  observed,  with  a  good  deal  of  grandeur. 

"  Is  it  to  New  Orleans  ?"  Catherine  went  on,  ir- 
relevantly. 

It  was  the  first  time  Mrs.  Penniman  had  heard  of 
New  Orleans  in  this  connection ;  but  she  was  averse 
to  letting  Catherine  know  that  she  was  in  the  dark. 
She  attempted  to  strike  an  illumination  from  the  in- 
structions she  had  received  from  Morris.  "  My  dear 
Catherine,"  she  said,  "  when  a  separation  has  been 
agreed  upon,  the  farther  he  goes  away  the  better." 

"  Agreed  upon  ?  Has  he  agreed  upon  it  with  you  ?" 
A  consummate  sense  of  her  aunt's  meddlesome  folly 
had  come  over  her  during  the  last  five  minutes,  and 
she  was  sickened  at  the  thought  that  Mrs.  Penniman 
had  been  let  loose,  as  it  were,  upon  her  happiness. 

"He  certainly  has  sometimes  advised  with  me," 
said  Mrs.  Penniman. 

"  Is  it  you,  then,  that  has  changed  him  and  made 
him  so  unnatural  ?"  Catherine  cried.  "  Is  it  you  that 
have  worked  on  him  and  taken  him  from  me  ?  He 
doesn't  belong  to  you,  and  I  don't  see  how  you  have 
anything  to  do  with  what  is  between  us !  Is  it  you 
that  have  made  this  plot,  and  told  him  to  leave  me  ? 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  231 

How  could  you  be  so  wicked,  so  cruel  ?  What  have 
I  ever  done  to  you?  Why  can't  you  leave  me  alone  ? 
I  was  afraid  you  would  spoil  everything ;  for  you  do 
spoil  everything  you  touch !  I  was  afraid  of  you 
all  the  time  we  were  abroad ;  I  had  no  rest  when  I 
thought  that  you  were  always  talking  to  him."  Cath- 
erine went  on  with  growing  vehemence,  pouring  out, 
in  her  bitterness  and  in  the  clairvoyance  of  her  pas- 
sion (which  suddenly,  jumping  all  processes,  made 
her  judge  her  aunt  finally  and  without  appeal),  the 
uneasiness  which  had  lain  for  so  many  months  upon 
her  heart. 

Mrs.  Pennirnan  was  scared  and  bewildered ;  she 
saw  no  prospect  of  introducing  her  little  account  of 
the  purity  of  Morris's  motives.  "  You  are  a  most 
ungrateful  girl !"  she  cried.  "  Do  you  scold  me  for 
talking  with  him?  I'm  sure  we  never  talked  of 
anything  but  you !" 

"  Yes ;  and  that  was  the  way  you  worried  him  ; 
you  made  him  tired  of  my  very  name !  I  wish  you 
had  never  spoken  of  me  to  him ;  I  never  asked  your 
help !" 

"I  am  sure  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me  he  would 
never  have  come  to  the  house,  and  you  would  nev- 
er have  known  that  he  thought  of  you,"  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman  rejoined,  with  a  good  deal  of  justice. 

"  I  wish  he  never  had  come  to  the  house,  and  that 
I  never  had  known  it !  That's  better  than  this,"  said 
poor  Catherine. 

"  You  are  a  very  ungrateful  girl,"  Aunt  Lavinia 
repeated. 

Catherine's  outbreak  of  anger  and  the  sense  of 
wrong  gave  her,  while  they  lasted,  the  satisfaction 


232  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

that  comes  from  all  assertion  of  force ;  they  hurried 
her  along,  and  there  is  always  a  sort  of  pleasure  in 
cleaving  the  air.  But  at  bottom  she  hated  to  be 
violent,  and  she  was  conscious  of  no  aptitude  for 
organized  resentment.  She  calmed  herself  with  a 
great  effort,  but  with  great  rapidity,  and  walked 
about  the  room  a  few  moments,  trying  to  say  'to 
herself  that  her  aunt  had  meant  everything  for  the 
best.  She  did  not  succeed  in  saying  it  with  much 
conviction,  but  after  a  little  she  was  able  to  speak 
quietly  enough. 

"  I  am  not  ungrateful,  but  I  am  very  unhappy. 
It's  hard  to  be  grateful  for  that,"  she  said.  "  Will 
you  please  tell  me  where  he  is  ?" 

"  I  haven't  the  least  idea;  I  arn  not  in  secret  corre- 
spondence with  him  !"  And  Mrs.  Penniman  wished, 
indeed,  that  she  were,  so  that  she  might  let  him  know 
how  Catherine  abused  her,  after  all  she  had  done. 

"  Was  it  a  plan  of  his,  then,  to  break  off — ?"  By 
this  time  Catherine  had  become  completely  quiet. 

Mrs.  Penniman  began  again  to  have  a  glimpse  of 
her  chance  for  explaining.  "  He  shrunk — he  shrunk," 
she  said ;  "  he  lacked  courage,  but  it  was  the  cour- 
age to  injure  you  !  He  couldn't  bear  to  bring  down 
on  you  your  father's  curse." 

Catherine  listened  to  this  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
her  aunt,  and  continued  to  gaze  at  her  for  some  time 
afterward.  "  Did  he  tell  you  to  say  that  ?" 

"  He  told  me  to  say  many  things — all  so  delicate, 
so  discriminating ;  and  he  told  rne  to  tell  you  he 
hoped  you  wouldn't  despise  him." 

"  I  don't,"  said  Catherine ;  and  then  she  added, 
"  And  will  he  stay  away  forever  ?" 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  233 

"  Oh,  forever  is  a  long  time.  Your  father,  per- 
haps, won't  live  forever." 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"I  am  sure  you  appreciate  —  you  understand — 
even  though  your  heart  bleeds,"  said  Mrs.  Penni- 
man.  "You  doubtless  think  him  too  scrupulous. 
So  do  I,  but  I  respect  his  scruples.  What  he  asks 
of  you  is  that  you  should  do  the  same." 

Catherine  was  still  gazing  at  her  aunt,  but  she 
spoke  at  last  as  if  she  had  not  heard  or  not  under- 
stood her.  "  It  has  been  a  regular  plan,  then.  He 
has  broken  it  off  deliberately ;  he  has  given  me  up." 

"  For  the  present,  dear  Catherine ;  he  has  put  it 
off,  only." 

"  He  has  left  me  alone,"  Catherine  went  on. 

"  Haven't  you  me  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Penniman,  with 
some  solemnity. 

Catherine  shook  her  head  slowly.  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve it !"  and  she  left  the  room. 


XXXI. 

THOUGH  she  had  forced  herself  to  be  calm,  she 
preferred  practising  this  virtue  in  private,  and  she 
forbore  to  show  herself  at  tea — a  repast  which,  on 
Sundays,  at  six  o'clock,  took  the  place  of  dinner. 
Doctor  Sloper  and  his  sister  sat  face  to  face,  but  Mrs. 
Penniman  never  met  her  brother's  eye.  Late  in  the 
evening  she  went  with  him,  but  without  Catherine, 
to  their  sister  Almond's,  where,  between  the  two 
ladies,  Catherine's  unhappy  situation  was  discussed 
with  a  frankness  that  was  conditioned  by  a  good 


234  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

deal  of  mysterious  reticence  on  Mrs.  Penniman's 
part. 

"I  am  delighted  he  is  not  to  marry  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Almond,  "  but  he  ought  to  be  horsewhipped  all 
the  same." 

Mrs.  Penniman,  who  was  shocked  at  her  sister's 
coarseness,  replied  that  he  had  been  actuated  by  the 
noblest  of  motives  —  the  desire  not  to  impoverish 
Catherine. 

"  I  am  very  happy  that  Catherine  is  not  to  be  im- 
poverished— but  I  hope  he  may  never  have  a  pen- 
ny too  much  !  And  what  does  the  poor  girl  say  to 
you  ?"  Mrs.  Almond  asked. 

"  She  says  I  have  a  genius  for  consolation,"  said 
Mrs.  Penniman. 

This  was  the  account  of  the  matter  that  she  gave 
to  her  sister,  and  it  was  perhaps  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  genius  that,  on  her  return  that  evening  to 
Washington  Square,  she  again  presented  herself  for 
admittance  at  Catherine's  door.  Catherine  came 
and  opened  it ;  she  was  apparently  very  quiet. 

"  I  only  want  to  give  you  a  little  word  of  advice," 
she  said.  "  If  your  father  asks  you,  say  that  every- 
thing is  going  on." 

Catherine  stood  there,  with  her  hand  on  the  knob, 
looking  at  her  aunt,  but  not  asking  her  to  come  in. 
"  Do  you  think  he  will  ask  me  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  he  will.  He  asked  me  just  now,  on 
our  way  home  from  your  aunt  Elizabeth's.  I  ex- 
plained the  whole  thing  to  your  aunt  Elizabeth.  I 
said  to  your  father  I  knew  nothing  about  it." 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  ask  me,  when  he  sees — 
when  he  sees — ?"  But  here  Catherine  stopped. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  235 

"  The  more  he  sees,  the  more  disagreeable  he  will 
be,"  said  her  aunt. 

"  He  shall  see  as  little  as  possible !"  Catherine  de- 
clared. 

"  Tell  him  you  are  to  be  married." 
v"  So  I  am,"  said  Catherine,  softly ;  and  she  closed 
the  door  upon  her  aunt. 

She  could  not  have  said  this  two  days  later — for 
instance,  on  Tuesday,  when  she  at  last  received  a 
letter  from  Morris  Townsend.  It  was  an  epistle  of 
considerable  length,  measuring  five  large  square 
pages,  and  written  at  Philadelphia.  It  was  an  ex- 
planatory document,  and  it  explained  a  great  many 
things,  chief  among  which  were  the  considerations 
that  had  led  the  writer  to  take  advantage  of  an  ur- 
gent "  professional "  absence  to  try  and  banish  from 
his  mind  the  image  of  one  whose  path  he  had  cross- 
ed only  to  scatter  it  with  ruins.  He  ventured  to  ex- 
pect but  partial  success  in  this  attempt,  but  he  could 
promise  her  that,  whatever  his  failure,  he  would  nev- 
er again  interpose  between  her  generous  heart  and 
her  brilliant  prospects  and  filial  duties.  He  closed 
with  an  intimation  that  his  professional  pursuits 
might  compel  him  to  travel  for  some  months,  and 
with  the  hope  that  when  they  should  each  have  ac- 
commodated themselves  to  what  was  sternly  involved 
in  their  respective  positions — even  should  this  re- 
sult not  be  reached  for  years — they  should  meet  as 
friends,  as  fellow  -  sufferers,  as  innocent  but  philo- 
sophic victims  of  a  great  social  law.  That  her  life 
should  be  peaceful  and  happy  was  the  dearest  wish 
of  him  who  ventured  still  to  subscribe  himself  her 
most  obedient  servant.  The  letter  was  beautifully 


236  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

written,  and  Catherine,  who  kept  it  for  many  years 
after  this,  was  able,  when  her  sense  of  the  bitterness 
of  its  meaning  and  the  hollowness  of  its  tone  had 
grown  less  acute,  to  admire  its  grace  of  expression. 
At  present,  for  a  long  time  after  she  received  it,  all 
she  had  to  help  her  was  the  determination,  daily 
more  rigid,  to  make  no  appeal  to  the  compassion  of 
her  father. 

He  suffered  a  week  to  elapse,  and  then  one  day,  in 
the  morning,  at  an  hour  at  which  she  rarely  saw  him, 
he  strolled  into  the  back  parlor.  He  had  watched 
his  time,  and  he  found  her  alone.  She  was  sitting 
with  some  work,  and  he  came  and  stood  in  front  of 
her.  He  was  going  out ;  he  had  on  his  hat,  and  was 
drawing  on  his  gloves. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  that  you  are  treating  me 
just  now  with  all  the  consideration  I  deserve,"  he 
said  in  a  moment. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  have  done,"  Catherine  an- 
swered, with  her  eyes  on  her  work. 

"You  have  apparently  quite  banished  from  your 
mind  the  request  I  made  you  at  Liverpool  before  we 
sailed — the  request  that  you  would  notify  me  in  ad- 
vance before  leaving  my  house." 

"  I  have  not  left  your  house,"  said  Catherine. 

"  But  you  intend  to  leave  it,  and,  by  what  you  gave 
me  to  understand,  your  departure  must  be  impend- 
ing. In  fact,  though  you  are  still  here  in  body,  you 
are  already  absent  in  spirit.  Your  mind  has  taken 
up  its  residence  with  your  prospective  husband,  and 
you  might  quite  as  well  be  lodged  under  the  conju- 
gal roof  for  all  the  benefit  we  get  from  your  so- 
ciety." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  237 

"  I  will  try  and  be  more  cheerful,"  said  Catherine. 

"  You  certainly  ought  to  be  cheerful ;  you  ask  a 
great  deal  if  you  are  not.  To  the  pleasure  of  mar- 
rying a  charming  young  man  you  add  that  of  hav- 
ing your  own  way;  you  strike  me  as  a  very  lucky 
young  lady  !" 

Catherine  got  up ;  she  was  suffocating.  But  she 
folded  her  work  deliberately  and  correctly,  bending 
her  burning  face  upon  it.  Her  father  stood  where 
he  had  planted  himself ;  she  hoped  he  would  go,  but 
he  smoothed  and  buttoned  his  gloves,  and  then  he 
rested  his  hands  upon  his  hips. 

"  It  would  be  a  convenience  to  me  to  know  when 
I  may  expect  to  have  an  empty  house,"  he  went  on. 
"  When  you  go,  your  aunt  marches." 

She  looked  at  him  at  last,  with  a  long,  silent  gaze, 
which,  in  spite  of  her  pride  and  her  resolution,  ut- 
tered part  of  the  appeal  she  had  tried  not  to  make. 
Her  father's  cold  gray  eye  sounded  her  own,  and  he 
insisted  on  his  point. 

"  Is  it  to-morrow  ?  Is  it  next  week,  or  the  week 
after?" 

"  I  shall  not  go  away !"  said  Catherine. 

The  Doctor  raised  his  eyebrows.  "  Has  he  backed 
out?" 

"  I  have  broken  off  my  engagement." 

"Broken  it  off?" 

"  I  have  asked  him  to  leave  New  York,  and  he 
has  gone  away  for  a  long  time." 

The  Doctor  was  both  puzzled  and  disappointed, 
but  he  solved  his  perplexity  by  saying  to  himself 
that  his  daughter  simply  misrepresented — justifia- 
bly, if  one  would,  but  nevertheless,  misrepresented — 


238  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

the  facts ;  and  he  eased  off  his  disappointment,  which 
was  that  of  a  man  losing  a  chance  for  a  little  tri- 
umph that  he  had  rather  counted  on,  by  a  few  words 
that  he  uttered  aloud. 

"  How  does  he  take  his  dismissal  ?" 

"  I  don't  know !"  said  Catherine,  less  ingeniously 
than  she  had  hitherto  spoken. 

"  You  mean  you  don't  care  ?  You  are  rather 
cruel,  after  encouraging  him  and  playing  with  him 
for  so  long !" 

The  Doctor  had  his  revenge,  after  all. 


XXXII. 

OUR  story  has  hitherto  moved  with  very  short 
steps,  but  as  it  approaches  its  termination  it  must 
take  a  long  stride.  As  time  went  on,  it  might  have 
appeared  to  the  Doctor  that  his  daughter's  account 
of  her  rupture  with  Morris  Townsend,  mere  bravado 
as  he  had  deemed  it,  was  in  some  degree  justified  by 
the  sequel.  Morris  remained  as  rigidly  and  unre- 
mittingly absent  as  if  he  had  died  of  a  broken  heart, 
and  Catherine  had  apparently  buried  the  memory 
of  this  fruitless  episode  as  deep  as  if  it  had  ter- 
minated by  her  own  choice.  We  know  that  she 
had  been  deeply  and  incurably  wounded,  but  the 
Doctor  had  no  means  of  knowing  it.  He  was  cer- 
tainly curious  about  it,  and  would  have  given  a  good 
deal  to  discover  the  exact  truth ;  but  it  was  his  pun- 
ishment that  he  never  knew — his  punishment,  I 
mean,  for  the  abuse  of  sarcasm  in  his  relations  with 
his  daughter.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  effective 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  239 

sarcasm  in  her  keeping  him  in  the  dark,  and  the  rest 
of  the  world  conspired  with  her,  in  this  sense,  to  be 
sarcastic.  Mrs.  Penniman  told  him  nothing,  partly 
because  he  never  questioned  her — he  made  too  light 
of  Mrs.  Penniman  for  that — and  partly  because  she 
flattered  herself  that  a  tormenting  reserve,  and  a 
serene  profession  of  ignorance,  would  avenge  her 
for  his  theory  that  she  had  meddled  in  the  matter. 
He  went  two  or  three  times  to  see  Mrs.  Montgom- 
ery, but  Mrs.  Montgomery  had  nothing  to  impart. 
She  simply  knew  that  her  brother's  engagement  was 
broken  off;  and  now  that  Miss  Sloper  was  out  of 
danger,  she  preferred  not  to  bear  witness  in  any 
way  against  Morris.  She  had  done  so  before — how- 
ever unwillingly  —  because  she  was  sorry  for  Miss 
Sloper ;  but  she  was  not  sorry  for  Miss  Sloper  now 
— not  at  all  sorry.  Morris  had  told  her  nothing 
about  his  relations  with  Miss  Sloper  at  the  time, 
and  he  had  told  her  nothing  since.  He  was  always 
away,  and  he  very  seldom  wrote  to  her ;  she  believed 
he  had  gone  to  California.  Mrs.  Almond  had,  in 
her  sister's  phrase,  "  taken  up  "  Catherine  violently 
since  the  recent  catastrophe ;  but,  though  the  girl 
was  very  grateful  to  her  for  her  kindness,  she  re- 
vealed no  secrets,  and  the  good  lady  could  give  the 
Doctor  no  satisfaction.  Even,  however,  had  she 
been  able  to  narrate  to  him  the  private  history  of 
his  daughter's  unhappy  love  affair,  it  would  have 
given  her  a  certain  comfort  to  leave  him  in  igno- 
rance ;  for  Mrs.  Almond  was  at  this  time  not  alto- 
gether in  sympathy  with  her  brother.  She  had 
guessed  for  herself  that  Catherine  had  been  cruelly 
jilted — she  knew  nothing  from  Mrs.  Penniman,  for 


240  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

Mrs.  Penniman  had  not  ventured  to  lay  the  famous 
explanation  of  Morris's  motives  before  Mrs.  Almond, 
though  she  had  thought  it  good  enough  for  Cathe- 
rine— and  she  pronounced  her  brother  too  consistent- 
ly indifferent  to  what  the  poor  creature  must  have 
suffered  and  must  still  be  suffering.  Doctor  Sloper 
had  his  theory,  and  he  rarely  altered  his  theories. 
The  marriage  would  have  been  an  abominable  one, 
and  the  girl  had  had  a  blessed  escape.  She  was  not 
to  be  pitied  for  that,  and  to  pretend  to  condole  with 
her  would  have  been  to  make  concessions  to  the 
idea  that  she  had  ever  had  a  right  to  think  of 
Morris. 

"  I  put  my  foot  on  this  idea  from  the  first,  and  I 
keep  it  there  now,"  said  the  Doctor.  "I  don't  see 
anything  cruel  in  that ;  one  can't  keep  it  there  too 
long."  To  this  Mrs.  Almond  more  than  once  re- 
plied that,  if  Catherine  had  got  rid  of  her  incongru- 
ous lover,  she  deserved  the  credit  of  it,  and  that  to 
bring  herself  to  her  father's  enlightened  view  of  the 
matter  must  have  cost  her  an  effort  that  he  was 
bound  to  appreciate. 

"  I  am  by  no  means  sure  she  has  got  rid  of  him," 
the  Doctor  said.  "  There  is  not  the  smallest  proba- 
bility that,  after  having  been  as  obstinate  as  a  mule 
for  two  years,  she  suddenly  became  amenable  to  rea- 
son. It  is  infinitely  more  probable  that  he  got  rid 
of  her." 

"All  the  more  reason  you  should  be  gentle  with 
her." 

"I  am  gentle  with  her.  But  I  can't  do  the  pa- 
thetic ;  I  can't  pump  up  tears,  to  look  graceful,  over 
the  most  fortunate  thing  that  ever  happened  to  her." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  241 

"  You  have  no  sympathy,"  said  Mrs.  Almond ; 
"  that  was  never  your  strong  point.  You  have  only 
to  look  at  her  to  see  that,  right  or  wrong,  and  wheth- 
er the  rupture  came  from  herself  or  from  him,  her 
poor  little  heart  is  grievously  bruised." 

"Handling  bruises,  and  even  dropping  tears  on 
them,  doesn't  make  them  any  better!  My  busi- 
ness is  to  see  she  gets  no  more  knocks,  and  that 
I  shall  carefully  attend  to.  But  I  don't  at  all  rec- 
ognize your  description  of  Catherine.  She  doesn't 
strike  me  in  the  least  as  a  young  woman  going 
about  in  search  of  a  moral  poultice.  In  fact,  she 
seems  to  me  much  better  than  while  the  fellow  was 
hanging  about.  She  is  perfectly  comfortable  and 
blooming;  she  eats  and  sleeps,  takes  her  usual  ex- 
ercise, and  overloads  herself,  as  usual,  with  finery. 
She  is  always  knitting  some  purse  or  embroidering 
some  handkerchief,  and  it  seems  to  me  she  turns 
these  articles  out  about  as  fast  as  ever.  She  hasn't 
much  to  say;  but  when  had  she  anything  to  say? 
She  had  her  little  dance,  and  now  she  is  sitting  down 
to  rest.  I  suspect  that,  on  the  whole,  she  enjoys  it." 

"  She  enjoys  it  as  people  enjoy  getting  rid  of  a 
leg  that  has  been  crushed.  The  state  of  mind  after 
amputation  is  doubtless  one  of  comparative  repose." 

"  If  your  leg  is  a  metaphor  for  young  Townsend, 
I  can  assure  you  he  has  never  been  crushed.  Crush- 
ed? Not  he!  He  is  alive  and  perfectly  intact; 
and  that's  why  I  am  not  satisfied." 

"  Should  you  have  liked  to  kill  him  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Almond. 

"  Yes,  very  much.  I  think  it  is  quite  possible  that 
it  is  all  a  blind." 

16 


242  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"A  blind?" 

"  An  arrangement  between  them.  II  fait  le  mort, 
as  they  say  in  France ;  but  he  is  looking  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye.  You  can  depend  upon  it,  he  has 
not  burnt  his  ships ;  he  has  kept  one  to  come  back 
in.  When  I  am  dead,  he  will  set  sail  again,  and  then 
she  will  marry  him." 

"It  is  interesting  to  know  that  you  accuse  your 
only  daughter  of  being  the  vilest  of  hypocrites," 
said  Mrs.  Almond. 

"I  don't  see  what  difference  her  being  my  only 
daughter  makes.  It  is  better  to  accuse  one  than  a 
dozen.  But  I  don't  accuse  any  one.  There  is  not 
the  smallest  hypocrisy  about  Catherine,  and  I  deny 
that  she  even  pretends  to  be  miserable." 

The  Doctor's  idea  that  the  thing  was  a  "  blind  " 
had  its  intermissions  and  revivals;  but  it  may  be 
said,  on  the  whole,  to  have  increased  as  he  grew  old- 
er ;  together  with  his  impressions  of  Catherine's 
blooming  and  comfortable  condition.  Naturally,  if 
he  had  not  found  grounds  for  viewing  her  as  a  love- 
lorn maiden  during  the  year  or  two  that  followed 
her  great  trouble,  he  found  none  at  a  time  when  she 
had  completely  recovered  her  self-possession.  He 
was  obliged  to  recognize  the  fact  that,  if  the  two 
young  people  were  waiting  for  him  to  get  out  of 
the  way,  they  were  at  least  waiting  very  patiently. 
He  had  heard  from  time  to  time  that  Morris  was  in 
New  York ;  but  he  never  remained  there  long,  and, 
to  the  best  of  the  Doctor's  belief,  had  no  commu- 
nication with  Catherine.  He  was  sure  they  never 
met,  and  he  had  reason  to  suspect  that  Morris  never 
wrote  to  her.  After  the  letter  that  has  been  men- 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  243 

tioned,  she  heard  from  him  twice  again,  at  consider- 
able intervals  ;  but  on  none  of  these  occasions  did 
she  write  herself.  On  the  other  hand,  as  the  Doc- 
tor observed,  she  averted  herself  rigidly  from  the 
idea  of  marrying  other  people.  Her  opportunities 
for  doing  so  were  not  numerous,  but  they  occurred 
often  enough  to  test  her  disposition.  She  refused  a 
widower,  a  man  with  a  genial  temperament,  a  hand- 
some fortune,  and  three  little  girls  (he  had  heard 
that  she  was  very  fond  of  children,  and  he  pointed 
to  his  own  with  some  confidence) ;  and  she  turned  a 
deaf  ear  to  the  solicitations  of  a  clever  young  law- 
yer, who,  with  the  prospect  of  a  great  practice,  and 
the  reputation  of  a  most  agreeable  man,  had  had  the 
shrewdness,  when  he  came  to  look  about  him  for  a 
wife,  to  believe  that  she  would  suit  him  better  than 
several  younger  and  prettier  girls.  Mr.  Macalister, 
the  widower,  had  desired  to  make  a  marriage  of  rea- 
son, and  had  chosen  Catherine  for  what  he  supposed 
to  be  her  latent  matronly  qualities ;  but  John  Lud- 
low,  who  was  a  year  the  girl's  junior,  and  spoken  of 
always  as  a  young  man  who  might  have  his  "  pick," 
was  seriously  in  love  with  her.  Catherine,  how- 
ever, would  never  look  at  him  ;  she  made  it  plain 
to  him  that  she  thought  he  came  to  see  her  too  of- 
ten. He  afterward  consoled  himself,  and  married  a 
very  different  person,  little  Miss  Sturtevant,  whose 
attractions  were  obvious  to  the  dullest  comprehen- 
sion. Catherine,  at  the  time  of  these  events,  had 
left  her  thirtieth  year  well  behind  her,  and  had  quite 
taken  her  place  as  an  old  maid.  Her  father  would 
have  preferred  she  should  marry,  and  he  once  told 
her  that  he  hoped  she  would  not  be  too  fastidious. 


244  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  an  honest  man's  wife  be- 
fore I  die,"  he  said.  This  was  after  John  Ludlow 
had  been  compelled  to  give  it  up,  though  the  Doc- 
tor had  advised  him  to  persevere.  The  Doctor  ex- 
ercised no  further  pressure,  and  had  the  credit  of 
not  "  worrying "  at  all  over  his  daughter's  single- 
ness; in  fact,  he  worried  rather  more  than  appeared, 
and  there  were  considerable  periods  during  which 
he  felt  sure  that  Morris  Townsend  was  hidden  be- 
hind some  door.  "  If  he  is  not,  why  doesn't  she 
marry?"  he  asked  himself.  "Limited  as  her  intel- 
ligence may  be,  she  must  understand  perfectly  well 
that  she  is  made  to  do  the  usual  thing."  Catherine, 
however,  became  an  admirable  old  maid.  She  form- 
ed habits,  regulated  her  days  upon  a  system  of  her 
own,  interested  herself  in  charitable  institutions, 
asylums,  hospitals,  and  aid  societies ;  and  went  gen- 
erally, with  an  even  and  noiseless  step,  about  the 
rigid  business  of  her  life.  This  life  had,  however,  a 
secret  history  as  well  as  a  public  one — if  I  may  talk 
of  the  public  history  of  a  mature  and  diffident  spin- 
ster for  whom  publicity  had  always  a  combination 
of  terrors.  From  her  own  point  of  view  the  great 
facts  of  her  career  were  that  Morris  Townsend  had 
trifled  with  her  affection,  and  that  her  father  had 
broken  its  spring.  Nothing  could  ever  alter  these 
facts  ;  they  were  always  there,  like  her  name,  her 
age,  her  plain  face.  Nothing  could  ever  undo  the 
wrong  or  cure  the  pain  that  Morris  had  inflicted  on 
her,  and  nothing  could  ever  make  her  feel  toward 
her  father  as  she  felt  in  her  younger  years.  There 
was  something  dead  in  her  life,  and  her  duty  was 
to  try  and  fill  the  void.  Catherine  recognized  this 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  245 

duty  to  the  utmost ;  she  had  a  great  disapproval  of 
brooding  and  moping.  She  had,  of  course,  no  fac- 
ulty for  quenching  memory  in  dissipation ;  but  she 
mingled  freely  in  the  usual  gayeties  of  the  town, 
and  she  became  at  last  an  inevitable  figure  at  all 
respectable  entertainments.  She  was  greatly  liked, 
and  as  time  went  on  she  grew  to  be  a  sort  of  kind- 
ly maiden -aunt  to  the  younger  portion  of  society. 
Young  girls  were  apt  to  confide  to  her  their  love 
affairs  (which  they  never  did  to  Mrs.  Penniman), 
and  young  men  to  be  fond  of  her  without  knowing 
why.  She  developed  a  few  harmless  eccentricities ; 
her  habits,  once  formed,  were  rather  stiffly  maintain- 
ed ;  her  opinions,  on  all  moral  and  social  matters, 
were  extremely  conservative;  and  before  she  was 
forty  she  was  regarded  as  an  old-fashioned  person, 
and  an  authority  on  customs  that  had  passed  away. 
Mrs.  Penniman,  in  comparison,  was  quite  a  girlish 
figure;  she  grew  younger  as  she  advanced  in  life. 
She  lost  none  of  her  relish  for  beauty  and  mystery, 
but  she  had  little  opportunity  to  exercise  it.  With 
Catherine's  later  wooers  she  failed  to  establish  rela- 
tions as  intimate  as  those  which  had  given  her  so 
many  interesting  hours  in  the  society  of  Morris 
Townsend.  These  gentlemen  had  an  indefinable 
mistrust  of  her  good  offices,  and  they  never  talked 
to  her  about  Catherine's  charms.  Her  ringlets,  her 
buckles  and  bangles  glistened  more  brightly  with 
each  succeeding  year,  and  she  remained  quite  the 
same  officious  and  imaginative  Mrs.  Penniman,  and 
the  odd  mixture  of  impetuosity  and  circumspection, 
that  we  have  hitherto  known.  As  regards  one  point, 
however,  her  circumspection  prevailed,  and  she  must 


246  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

be  given  due  credit  for  it.  For  upward  of  seven- 
teen years  she  never  mentioned  Morris  Townsend's 
name  to  her  niece.  Catherine  was  grateful  to  her, 
but  this  consistent  silence,  so  little  in  accord  with 
her  aunt's  character,  gave  her  a  certain  alarm,  and 
she  could  never  wholly  rid  herself  of  a  suspicion 
that  Mrs.  Peunirnan  sometimes  had  news  of  him. 


XXXIII. 

LITTLE  by  little  Doctor  Sloper  had  retired  from 
his  profession  ;  he  visited  only  those  patients  in 
whose  symptoms  he  recognized  a  certain  originality. 
He  went  again  to  Europe,  and  remained  two  years ; 
Catherine  went  with  him,  and  on  this  occasion  Mrs. 
Penniman  was  of  the  party.  Europe  apparently 
had  few  surprises  for  Mrs.  Penniman,  who  frequent- 
ly remarked,  in  the  most  romantic  sites,  "  You  know 
I  am  very  familiar  with  all  this."  It  should  be  add- 
ed that  such  remarks  were  usually  not  addressed  to 
her  brother,  or  yet  to  her  niece,  but  to  fellow-tourists 
who  happened  to  be  at  hand,  or  even  to  the  cicerone 
or  the  goatherd  in  the  foreground. 

One  day,  after  his  return  from  Europe,  the  Doc- 
tor said  something  to  his  daughter  that  made  her 
start — it  seemed  to  come  from  so  far  out  of  the 
past. 

"I  should  like  you  to  promise  me  something  be- 
fore I  die." 

"  Why  do  you  talk  about  your  dying  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Because  I  am  sixty-eight  years  old." 


WASHINGTON  SQUAKE.  247 

"  I  hope  you  will  live  a  long  time,"  said  Cathe- 
rine. 

"  I  hope  I  shall !  But  some  day  I  shall  take  a 
bad  cold,  and  then  it  will  not  matter  much  what  any 
one  hopes.  That  will  be  the  manner  of  my  exit, 
and  when  it  takes  place,  remember  I  told  you  so. 
Promise  me  not  to  marry  Morris  Townsend  after 
I  am  gone." 

This  was  what  made  Catherine  start,  as  I  have 
said ;  but  her  start  was  a  silent  one,  and  for  some 
moments  she  said  nothing.  "  Why  do  you  speak  of 
him  ?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"You  challenge  everything  I  say.  I  speak  of 
him  because  he's  a  topic,  like  any  other.  He's  to  be 
seen,  like  any  one  else,  and  he  is  still  looking  for  a 
wife — having  had  one  and  got  rid  of  her,  I  don't 
know  by  what  means.  He  has  lately  been  in  New 
York,  and  at  your  cousin  Marian's  house ;  your  aunt 
Elizabeth  saw  him  there." 

u  They  neither  of  them  told  me,"  said  Catherine. 

"  That's  their  merit ;  it's  not  yours.  He  has  grown 
fat  and  bald,  and  he  has  not  made  his  fortune.  But 
I  can't  trust  those  facts  alone  to  steel  your  heart 
against  him,  and  that's  why  I  ask  you  to  promise." 

"  Fat  and  bald ;"  these  words  presented  a  strange 
image  to  Catherine's  mind,  out  of  which  the  mem- 
ory of  the  most  beautiful  young  man  in  the  world 
had  never  faded.  "  I  don't  think  you  understand," 
she  said.  "  I  very  seldom  think  of  Mr.  Townsend." 

"  It  will  be  very  easy  for  you  to  go  on,  then. 
Promise  me,  after  my  death,  to  do  the  same." 

Again,  for  some  moments,  Catherine  was  silent ; 
her  father's  request  deeply  amazed  her ;  it  opened 


248  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

an  old  wound,  and  made  it  ache  afresh.  "  I  don't 
think  I  can  promise  that,"  she  answered. 

"  It  would  be  a  great  satisfaction,"  said  her  father. 

"  You  don't  understand.     I  can't  promise  that." 

The  Doctor  was  silent  a  minute.  "  I  ask  you  for  a 
particular  reason.  I  am  altering  my  will." 

This  reason  failed  to  strike  Catherine ;  and  indeed 
she  scarcely  understood  it.  All  her  feelings  were 
merged  in  the  sense  that  he  was  trying  to  treat  her 
as  he  had  treated  her  years  before.  She  had  suffered 
from  it  then  ;  and  now  all  her  experience,  all  her 
acquired  tranquillity  and  rigidity  protested.  She 
had  been  so  humble  in  her  youth  that  she  could 
now  afford  to  have  a  little  pride,  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  this  request,  and  in  her  father's  thinking 
himself  so  free  to  make  it,  that  seemed  an  injury  to 
her  dignity.  Poor  Catherine's  dignity  was  not  ag- 
gressive; it  never  sat  in  state;  but  if  you  pushed 
far  enough  you  could  find  it.  Her  father  had  push- 
ed very  far. 

"  I  can't  promise,"  she  simply  repeated. 

"  You  are  very  obstinate,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  I  don't  think  you  understand." 

"Please  explain,  then." 

"  I  can't  explain,"  said  Catherine ;  "  and  I  can't 
promise." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  her  father  exclaimed, "  I  had 
no  idea  how  obstinate  you  are !" 

She  knew  herself  that  she  was  obstinate,  and  it 
gave  her  a  certain  joy.  She  was  now  a  middle-aged 
woman. 

About  a  year  after  this,  the  accident  that  the  Doc- 
tor had  spoken  of  occurred :  he  took  a  violent  cold. 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  249 

Driving  out  to  Bloomingdale  one  April  day  to  see 
a  patient  of  unsound  mind,  who  was  confined  in  a 
private  asylum  for  the  insane,  and  whose  family 
greatly  desired  a  medical  opinion  from  an  eminent 
source,  he  was  caught  in  a  spring  shower.,  and  being 
in  a  buggy,  without  a  hood,  he  found  himself  soaked 
to  the  skin.  He  came  home  with  an  ominous  chill, 
and  on  the  morrow  he  was  seriously  ill.  "  It  is  con- 
gestion of  the  lungs,"  he  said  to  Catherine  ;  "  I  shall 
need  very  good  nursing.  It  will  make  no  differ- 
ence, for  I  shall  not  recover ;  but  I  wish  everything 
to  be  done,  to  the  smallest  detail,  as  if  I  should.  I 
hate  an  ill-conducted  sick-room,  and  you  will  be  so 
good  as  to  nurse  me,  on  the  hypothesis  that  I  shall 
get  well."  He  told  her  which  of  his  fellow-physi- 
cians to  send  for,  and  gave  her  a  multitude  of  mi- 
nute directions ;  it  was  quite  on  the  optimistic  hy- 
pothesis that  she  nursed  him.  But  he  had  never 
been  wrong  in  his  life,  and  he  was  not  wrong  now. 
He  was  touching  his  seventieth  year,  and  though  he 
had  a  very  well-tempered  constitution,  his  hold  upon 
life  had  lost  its  firmness.  He  died  after  three  weeks' 
illness,  during  which  Mrs.  Penniman,  as  well  as  his 
daughter,  had  been  assiduous  at  his  bedside. 

On  his  will  being  opened,  after  a  decent  interval, 
it  was  found  to  consist  of  two  portions.  The  first 
of  these  dated  from  ten  years  back,  and  consisted  of 
a  series  of  dispositions  by  which  he  left  the  great 
mass  of  his  property  to  his  daughter,  with  becoming 
legacies  to  his  two  sisters.  The  second  was  a  codicil, 
of  recent  origin,  maintaining  the  annuities  to  Mrs. 
Penniman  and  .Mrs.  Almond,  but  reducing  Cathe- 
rine's share  to  a  fifth  of  what  he  had  first  bequeathed 


250  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

her.  "  She  is  amply  provided  for  from  her  moth- 
er's side,"  the  document  ran,  "  never  having  spent 
more  than  a  fraction  of  her  income  from  this  source ; 
so  that  her  fortune  is  already  more  than  sufficient  to 
attract  those  unscrupulous  adventurers  whom  she 
has  given  me  reason  to  believe  that  she  persists  in 
regarding  as  an  interesting  class."  The  large  re- 
mainder of  his  property,  therefore,  Doctor  Sloper 
had  divided  into  seven  unequal  parts,  which  he  left, 
as  endowments,  to  as  many  different  hospitals  and 
schools  of  medicine  in  various  cities  of  the  Union. 

To  Mrs.  Penniman  it  seemed  monstrous  that  a 
man  should  play  such  tricks  with  other  people's 
money ;  for  after  his  death,  of  course,  as  she  said, 
it  was  other  people's.  "  Of  course,  you  will  imme- 
diately break  the  will,"  she  remarked  to  Catherine. 

"  Oh  no,"  Catherine  answered,  "  I  like  it  very 
much.  Only  I  wish  it  had  been  expressed  a  little 
differently!" 


XXXIY. 

IT  was  her  habit  to  remain  in  town  very  late  in 
the  summer;  she  preferred  the  house  in  Washing- 
ton Square  to  any  other  habitation  whatever,  and  it 
was  under  protest  that  she  used  to  go  to  the  sea-side 
for  the  month  of  August.  At  the  sea  she  spent  her 
month  at  an  hotel.  The  year  that  her  father  died 
she  intermitted  this  custom  altogether,  not  thinking 
it  consistent  with  deep  mourning ;  and  the  year  af- 
ter that  she  put  off  her  departure  till  so  late  that  the 
middle  of  August  found  her  still  in  the  heated  soli- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  251 

tude  of  Washington  Square.  Mrs.  Penniman,  who 
was  fond  of  a  change,  was  usually  eager  for  a  visit 
to  the  country ;  but  this  year  she  appeared  quite 
content  with  such  rural  impressions  as  she  could 
gather  at  the  parlor- window  from  the  ailantus-trees 
behind  the  wooden  paling.  The  peculiar  fragrance 
of  this  vegetation  used  to  diffuse  itself  in  the  even- 
ing air,  and  Mrs.  Penniman,  on  the  warm  nights  of 
July,  often  sat  at  the  open  window  and  inhaled  it. 
This  was  a  happy  moment  for  Mrs.  Penniman ;  af- 
ter the  death  of  her  brother  she  felt  more  free  to 
obey  her  impulses.  A  vague  oppression  had  disap- 
peared from  her  life,  and  she  enjoyed  a  sense  of 
freedom  of  which  she  had  not  been  conscious  since 
the  memorable  time,  so  long  ago,  when  the  Doctor 
went  abroad  with  Catherine  and  left  her  at  home  to 
entertain  Morris  Townsend.  The  year  that  had 
elapsed  since  her  brother's  death  reminded  her  of 
that  happy  time,  because,  although  Catherine,  in 
growing  older,  had  become  a  person  to  be  reckoned 
with,  yet  her  society  was  a  very  different  thing,  as 
Mrs.  Penniman  said,  from  that  of  a  tank  of  cold  wa- 
ter. The  elder  lady  hardly  knew  what  use  to  make 
of  this  larger  margin  of  her  life ;  she  sat  and  looked 
at  it  very  much  as  she  had  often  sat,  with  her  poised 
needle  in  her  hand,  before  her  tapestry-frame.  She 
had  a  confident  hope,  however,  that  her  rich  im- 
pulses, her  talent  for  embroidery,  would  still  find 
their  application,  and  this  confidence  was  justified 
before  many  months  had  elapsed. 

Catherine  continued  to  live  in  her  father's  house, 
in  spite  of  its  being  represented  to  her  that  a  maid- 
en lady  of  quiet  habits  might  find  a  more  conven- 


252  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

lent  abode  in  one  of  the  smaller  dwellings,  with 
brown  stone  fronts,  which  had  at  this  time  begun  to 
adorn  the  transverse  thoroughfares  in  the  upper  part 
of  the  town.  She  liked  the  earlier  structure — it  had 
begun  by  this  time  to  be  called  an  "  old  "  house— 
and  proposed  to  herself  to  end  her  days  in  it.  If  it 
was  too  large  for  a  pair  of  unpretending  gentlewom- 
en, this  was  better  than  the  opposite  fault;  for  Cathe- 
rine had  no  desire  to  find  herself  in  closer  quarters 
with  her  aunt.  She  expected  to  spend  the  rest  of 
her  life  in  Washington  Square,  and  to  enjoy  Mrs. 
Penniman's  society  for  the  whole  of  this  period ;  as 
she  had  a  conviction  that,  long  as  she  might  live, 
her  aunt  would  live  at  least  as  long,  and  always  re- 
tain her  brilliancy  and  activity.  Mrs.  Penniman 
suggested  to  her  the  idea  of  a  rich  vitality. 

On  one  of  those  warm  evenings  in  July  of  which 
mention  has  been  made,  the  two  ladies  sat  together 
at  an  open  window,  looking  out  on  the  quiet  Square. 
It  was  too  hot  for  lighted  lamps,  for  reading,  or  for 
work ;  it  might  have  appeared  too  hot  even  for  con- 
versation, Mrs.  Penniman  having  long  been  speech- 
less. She  sat  forward  in  the  window,  half  on  the 
balcony,  humming  a  little  song.  Catherine  was  with- 
in the  room,  in  a  low  rocking-chair,  dressed  in  white, 
and  slowly  using  a  large  palmetto  fan.  It  was  in 
this  way,  at  this  season,  that  the  aunt  and  niece,  after 
they  had  had  tea,  habitually  spent  their  evenings. 

"  Catherine,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman  at  last,  "  I  am 
going  to  say  something  that  will  surprise  you." 

"Pray  do,"  Catherine  answered ;  "I  like  surprises. 
And  it  is  so  quiet  now." 

"  Well,  then,  I  have  seen  Morris  Townsend." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  253 

If  Catherine  was  surprised,  she  checked  the  ex- 
pression of  it ;  she  gave  neither  a  start  nor  an  ex- 
clamation. She  remained,  indeed,  for  some  mo- 
ments intensely  still,  and  this  may  very  well  have 
been  a  symptom  of  emotion.  "  I  hope  he  was  well," 
she  said  at  last. 

"  I  don't  know ;  he  is  a  great  deal  changed.  He 
would  like  very  much  to  see  you." 

"I  would  rather  not  see  him,"  said  Catherine, 
quickly. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  say  that.  But  you  don't 
seem  surprised !" 

"  I  am — very  much." 

"  I  met  him  at  Marian's,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman. 
"  He  goes  to  Marian's,  and  they  are  so  afraid  you 
will  meet  him  there.  It's  my  belief  that  that's  why 
he  goes.  He  wants  so  much  to  see  you."  Cathe- 
rine made  no  response  to  this,  and  Mrs.  Penniman 
went  on.  "I  didn't  know  him  at  first, he  is  so  re- 
markably changed;  but  he  knew  me  in  a  minute. 
He  says  I  am  not  in  the  least  changed.  You  know 
how  polite  he  always  was.  He  was  coming  away 
when  I  came,  and  we  walked  a  little  distance  to- 
gether. He  is  still  very  handsome,  only  of  course 
he  looks  older,  and  he  is  not  so  —  so  animated 
as  he  used  to  be.  There  was  a  touch  of  sadness 
about  him ;  but  there  was  a  touch  of  sadness  about 
him  before,  especially  when  he  went  away.  I  am 
afraid  he  has  not  been  very  successful — that  he  has 
never  got  thoroughly  established.  I  don't  suppose 
he  is  sufficiently  plodding,  and  that,  after  all,  is  what 
succeeds  in  this  world."  Mrs.  Penniman  had  not 
mentioned  Morris  Townsend's  name  to  her  niece  for 


254  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

upwards  of  the  fifth  of  a  century ;  but  now  that  she 
had  broken  the  spell,  she  seemed  to  wish  to  make 
up  for  lost  time,  as  if  there  had  been  a  sort  of  ex- 
hilaration in  hearing  herself  talk  of  him.  She  pro- 
ceeded, however,  with  considerable  caution,  pausing 
occasionally  to  let  Catherine  give  some  sign.  Cathe- 
rine gave  no  other  sign  than  to  stop  the  rocking  of 
her  chair  and  the  swaying  of  her  fan ;  she  sat  mo- 
tionless and  silent.  "  It  was  on  Tuesday  last,"  said 
Mrs.  Penniman,  "  and  I  have  been  hesitating  ever 
since  about  telling  you.  I  didn't  know  how  you 
might  like  it.  At  last  I  thought  that  it  was  so  long 
ago  that  yon  would  probably  not  have  any  particu- 
lar feeling.  I  saw  him  again  after  meeting  him  at 
Marian's.  I  met  him  in  the  street,  and  he  went  a 
few  steps  with  me.  The  first  thing  he  said  was 
about  you ;  he  asked  ever  so  many  questions.  Ma- 
rian didn't  want  me  to  speak  to  you  ;  she  didn't 
want  you  to  know  that  they  receive  him.  I  told 
him  I  was  sure  that  after  all  these  years  you  couldn't 
have  any  feeling  about  that ;  you  couldn't  grudge 
him  the  hospitality  of  his  own  cousin's  house.  I 
said  you  would  be  bitter  indeed  if  you  did  that. 
Marian  has  the  most  extraordinary  ideas  about  what 
happened  between  you;  she  seems  to  think  he  be- 
haved in  some  very  unusual  manner.  I  took  the 
liberty  of  reminding  her  of  the  real  facts,  and  plac- 
ing the  story  in  its  true  light.  He  has  no  bitterness, 
Catherine,  I  can  assure  you ;  and  he  might  be  ex- 
cused for  it,  for  things  have  not  gone  well  with  him. 
He  has  been  all  over  the  world,  and  tried  to  estab- 
lish himself  everywhere ;  but  his  evil  star  was  against 
him.  It  is  most  interesting  to  hear  him  talk  of  his 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  255 

evil  star.  Everything  failed ;  everything  but  his — 
you  know,  you  remember — his  proud,  high  spirit. 
I  believe  he  married  some  lady  somewhere  in  Europe. 
You  know  they  marry  in  such  a  peculiar  matter-of- 
course  way  in  Europe;  a  marriage  of  reason  they 
call  it.  She  died  soon  afterward ;  as  he  said  to  me, 
she  only  flitted  across  his  life.  He  has  not  been  in 
New  York  for  ten  years ;  he  came  back  a  few  days 
ago.  The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  ask  me  about 
you.  He  had  heard  you  had  never  married ;  he 
seemed  very  much  interested  about  that.  He  said 
you  had  been  the  real  romance  of  his  life." 

Catherine  had  suffered  her  companion  to  proceed 
from  point  to  point,  and  pause  to  pause,  without  in- 
terrupting her;  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  ground 
and  listened.  But  the  last  phrase  I  have  quoted  was 
followed  by  a  pause  of  peculiar  significance,  and  then, 
at  last,  Catherine  spoke.  It  will  be  observed  that 
before  doing  so  she  had  received  a  good  deal  of  in- 
formation about  Morris  Townsend.  "  Please  say  no 
more ;  please  don't  follow  up  that  subject." 

"  Doesn't  it  interest  you  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Penniman, 
with  a  certain  timorous  archness. 

"  It  pains  me,"  said  Catherine. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  say  that.  But  don't  you 
think  you  could  get  used  to  it  ?  He  wants  so  much 
to  see  you." 

"  Please  don't,  Aunt  Lavinia,"  said  Catherine,  get- 
ting up  from  her  seat.  She  moved  quickly  away, 
and  went  to  the  other  window,  which  stood  open  to 
the  balcony ;  and  here,  in  the  embrasure,  concealed 
from  her  aunt  by  the  white  curtains,  she  remained 
a  long  time,  looking  out  into  the  warm  darkness. 


256  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

She  had  had  a  great  shock ;  it  was  as  if  the  gulf  of 
the  past  had  suddenly  opened,  and  a  spectral  figure 
had  risen  out  of  it.  There  were  some  things  she 
believed  she  had  got  over,  some  feelings  that  she 
had  thought  of  as  dead;  but  apparently  there  was 
a  certain  vitality  in  them  still.  Mrs.  Penniman  had 
made  them  stir  themselves.  It  was  but  a  momen- 
tary agitation,  Catherine  said  to  herself;  it  would 
presently  pass  away.  She  was  trembling,  and  her 
heart  was  beating  so  that  she  could  feel  it ;  but  this 
also  would  subside.  Then  suddenly,  while  she  wait- 
ed for  a  return  of  her  calmness,  she  burst  into  tears. 
But  her  tears  flowed  very  silently,  so  that  Mrs.  Pen- 
nirnan  had  no  observation  of  them.  It  was  perhaps, 
however,  because  Mrs.  Penniman  suspected  them 
that  she  said  no  more  that  evening  about  Morris 
Townsend. 


XXXV. 

HER  refreshed  attention  to  this  gentleman  had 
not  those  limits  of  which  Catherine  desired,  for  her- 
self, to  be  conscious ;  it  lasted  long  enough  to  enable 
her  to  wait  another  week  before  speaking  of  him 
again.  It  was  under  the  same  circumstances  that 
she  once  more  attacked  the  subject.  She  had  been 
sitting  with  her  niece  in  the  evening;  only  on  this 
occasion,  as  the  night  was  not  so  warm,  the  lamp 
had  been  lighted,  and  Catherine  had  placed  herself 
near  it  with  a  morsel  of  fancy-work.  Mrs.  Penni- 
man went  and  sat  alone  for  half  an  hour  on  the  bal- 
cony ;  then  she  came  in,  moving  vaguely  about  the 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  257 

room.     At  last  she  sunk  into  a  seat  near  Catherine, 
with  clasped  hands,  and  a  little  look  of  excitement. 

"  Shall  you  be  angry  if  I  speak  to  you  again  about 
him  ?"  she  asked. 

Catherine  looked  up  at  her  quietly.    "  Who  is  he  ?" 

"He  whom  you  once  loved." 

"  I  shall  not  be  angry,  but  I  shall  not  like  it." 

"He  sent  you  a  message,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman. 
"  I  promised  him  to  deliver  it,  and  I  must  keep  my 
promise." 

In  all  these  years  Catherine  had  had  time  to  for- 
get how  little  she  had  to  thank  her  aunt  for  in  the 
season  of  her  misery ;  she  had  long  ago  forgiven 
Mrs.  Penniman  for  taking  too  much  upon  herself. 
But  for  a  moment  this  attitude  of  interposition  and 
disinterestedness,  this  carrying  of  messages  and  re- 
deeming of  promises,  brought  back  the  sense  that 
her  companion  was  a  dangerous  woman.  She  had 
said  she  would  not  be  angry ;  but  for  an  instant  she 
felt  sore.  "I  don't  care  what  you  do  with  your 
promise !"  she  answered. 

Mrs.  Penniman,  however,  with  her  high  concep- 
tion of  the  sanctity  of  pledges,  carried  her  point. 
"  I  have  gone  too  far  to  retreat,"  she  said,  though 
precisely  what  this  meant  she  was  not  at  pains  to 
explain.  "  Mr.  Townsend  wishes  most  particularly 
to  see  you,  Catherine ;  he  believes  that  if  you  knew 
how  much,  and  why,  he  wishes  it,  you  would  con- 
sent to  do  so." 

"  There  can  be  no  reason,"  said  Catherine ;  "  no 
good  reason." 

"  His  happiness  depends  upon  it.  Is  not  that  a 
good  reason  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Penniman,  impressively. 

17 


258  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

"  Not  for  me.     My  happiness  does  not." 

"  I  think  you  will  be  happier  after  you  have  seen 
him.  He  is  going  away  again  —  going  to  resume 
his  wanderings.  It  is  a  very  lonely,  restless,  joyless 
life.  Before  he  goes  he  wishes  to  speak  to  you ;  it 
is  a  fixed  idea  with  him — he  is  always  thinking  of 
it.  He  has  something  very  important  to  say  to  you. 
He  believes  that  you  never  understood  him — that 
you  never  judged  him  rightly,  and  the  belief  has  al- 
ways weighed  upon  him  terribly.  He  wishes  to  jus- 
tify himself;  he  believes  that  in  a  very  few  words 
he  could  do  so.  He  wishes  to  meet  you  as  a 
friend." 

Catherine  listened  to  this  wonderful  speech  with- 
out pausing  in  her  work ;  she  had  now  had  several 
days  to  accustom  herself  to  think  of  Morris  Town- 
send  again  as  an  actuality.  When  it  was  over  she 
said  simply,  "  Please  say  to  Mr.  Townsend  that  I  wish 
he  would  leave  me  alone." 

She  had  hardly  spoken  when  a  sharp,  firm  ring  at 
the  door  vibrated  through  the  summer  night.  Cath- 
erine looked  up  at  the  clock;  it  marked  a  quarter 
past  nine — a  very  late  hour  for  visitors,  especially  in 
the  empty  condition  of  the  town.  Mrs.  Penniman 
at  the  same  moment  gave  a  little  start,  and  then 
Catherine's  eyes  turned  quickly  to  her  aunt.  They 
met  Mrs.  Penniman's,  and  sounded  them  for  a  mo- 
ment sharply.  Mrs.  Penniman  was  blushing;  her 
look  was  a  conscious  one ;  it  seemed  to  confess  some- 
thing. Catherine  guessed  its  meaning,  and  rose 
quickly  from  her  chair. 

"  Aunt  Penniman,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  scared 
her  companion,  "  have  you  taken  the  liberty  .  .  .  ?" 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  259 

"  My  dearest  Catherine,"  stammered  Mrs.  Penni- 
man,  "just  wait  till  you  see  him  !" 

Catherine  had  frightened  her  aunt,  but  she  was 
also  frightened  herself ;  she  was  on  the  point  of  rush- 
ing to  give  orders  to  the  servant,  who  was  passing 
to  the  door,  to  admit  no  one ;  but  the  fear  of  meet- 
ing her  visitor  checked  her. 

"  Mr.  Morris  Townsend." 

This  was  what  she  heard,  vaguely  but  recogniza- 
bly, articulated  by  the  domestic,  while  she  hesitated. 
She  had  her  back  turned  to  the  door  of  the  par- 
lor, and  for  some  moments  she  kept  it  turned,  feel- 
ing that  he  had  come  in.  He  had  not  spoken,  how- 
ever, and  at  last  she  faced  about.  Then  she  saw  a 
gentleman  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  from 
which  her  aunt  had  discreetly  retired. 

She  would  never  have  known  him.  He  was  for- 
ty-five years  old,  and  his  figure  was  not  that  of  the 
straight,  slim  young  man  she  remembered.  But  it 
was  a  very  fine  presence,  and  a  fair  and  lustrous 
beard,  spreading  itself  upon  a  well-presented  chest, 
contributed  to  its  effect.  After  a  moment  Cathe- 
rine recognized  the  upper  half  of  the  face,  which, 
though  her  visitor's  clustering  locks  had  grown  thin, 
was  still  remarkably  handsome.  He  stood  in  a  deeply 
deferential  attitude,  with  his  eyes  on  her  face.  "  I 
have  ventured — I  have  ventured ;"  he  said,  and  then 
he  paused,  looking  about  him,  as  if  he  expected  her 
to  ask  him  to  sit  down.  It  was  the  old  voice;  but 
it  had  not  the  old  charm.  Catherine,  for  a  minute, 
was  conscious  of  a  distinct  determination  not  to  in- 
vite him  to  take  a  seat.  Why  had  he  come?  It 
was  wrong  for  him  to  come.  Morris  was  embar- 


260  WASHINGTON  SQUAEE. 

rassed,  but  Catherine  gave  him  no  help.  It  was 
not  that  she  was  glad  of  his  embarrassment ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  excited  all  her  own  liabilities  of  this 
kind,  and  gave  her  great  pain.  But  how  could  she 
welcome  him  when  she  felt  so  vividly  that  he  ought 
not  to  have  come ?  "I  wanted  so  much — I  was  de- 
termined," Morris  went  on.  But  he  stopped  again ; 
it  was  not  easy.  Catherine  still  said  nothing,  and 
he  may  well  have  recalled  with  apprehension  her 
ancient  faculty  of  silence.  She  continued  to  look 
at  him,  however,  and  as  she  did  so  she  made  the 
strangest  observation.  It  seemed  to  be  he,  and  yet 
not  he;  it  was  the  man  who  had  been  everything, 
and  yet  this  person  was  nothing.  How  long  ago  it 
was — how  old  she  had  grown — how  much  she  had 
lived !  She  had  lived  on  something  that  was  con- 
nected with  Mm,  and  she  had  consumed  it  in  doing 
so.  This  person  did  not  look  unhappy.  He  was 
fair  and  well-preserved,  perfectly  dressed,  mature 
and  complete.  As  Catherine  looked  at  him,  the 
story  of  his  life  defined  itself  in  his  eyes ;  he  had 
made  himself  comfortable,  and  he  had  never  been 
caught.  But  even  while  her  perception  opened  it- 
self to  this,  she  had  no  desire  to  catch  him ;  his  pres- 
ence was  painful  to  her,  and  she  only  wished  he 
would  go. 

"  Will  you  not  sit  down  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  not,"  said  Catherine. 

"  I  offend  you  by  coming  ?"  He  was  very  grave ; 
he  spoke  in  a  tone  of  the  richest  respect. 

"  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  have  come." 

"Did  not  Mrs.  Penniman  tell  you — did  she  not 
give  you  my  message  ?" 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  261 

"  She  told  me  something,  but  I  did  not  under- 
stand." 

"  I  wish  you  would  let  me  tell  you — let  me  speak 
for  myself." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  necessary,"  said  Catherine. 

"  Not  for  you,  perhaps,  but  for  me.  It  would  be 
a  great  satisfaction  —  and  I  have  not  many."  He 
seemed  to  be  corning  nearer ;  Catherine  turned  away. 
"  Can  we  not  be  friends  again  ?"  he  asked. 

"  We  are  not  enemies,"  said  Catherine.  "  I  have 
none  but  friendly  feelings  to  you." 

"Ah, I  wonder  whether  you  know  the  happiness 
it  gives  me  to  hear  you  say  that !"  Catherine  utter- 
ed no  intimation  that  she  measured  the  influence  of 
her  words ;  and  he  presently  went  on,  "  You  have 
not  changed — the  years  have  passed  happily  for  you." 

"  They  have  passed  very  quietly,"  said  Catherine. 

"  They  have  left  no  marks ;  you  are  admirably 
young."  This  time  he  succeeded  in  coming  nearer 
—he  was  close  to  her ;  she  saw  his  glossy  perfumed 
beard,  and  his  eyes  above  it  looking  strange  and 
hard.  It  was  very  different  from  his  old — from  his 
young — face.  If  she  had  first  seen  him  this  way 
she  would  not  have  liked  him.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  he  was  smiling,  or  trying  to  smile.  "  Cathe- 
rine," he  said,  lowering  his  voice,  "I  have  never 
ceased  to  think  of  you." 

"  Please  don't  say  these  things,"  she  answered. 

"Do  you  hate  me?" 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Catherine. 

Something  in  her  tone  discouraged  him,  but  in 
a  moment  he  recovered  himself.  "  Have  you  still 
some  kindness  for  me,  then  3" 


262  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  have  come  here  to  ask 
me  such  things  !"  Catherine  exclaimed. 

"  Because  for  many  years  it  has  been  the  desire 
of  my  life  that  we  should  be  friends  again." 

"  That  is  impossible." 

"  Why  so  ?    Not  if  you  will  allow  it." 

"  I  will  not  allow  it,"  said  Catherine. 

He  looked  at  her  again  in  silence.  "  I  see ;  my 
presence  troubles  you  and  pains  you.  I  will  go 
away ;  but  you  must  give  me  leave  to  come  again." 

"  Please  don't  come  again,"  she  said. 

"  Never  ?— never  ?" 

She  made  a  great  effort ;  she  wished  to  say  some- 
thing that  would  make  it  impossible  he  should  ever 
again  cross  her  threshold.  "  It  is  wrong  of  you. 
There  is  no  propriety  in  it — no  reason  for  it." 

"Ah,  dearest  lady,  you  do  me  injustice !"  cried 
Morris  Townsend.  "  We  have  only  waited,  and  now 
we  are  free." 

"  You  treated  me  badly,"  said  Catherine. 

"  Not  if  you  think  of  it  rightly.  You  had  your 
quiet  life  with  your  father — which  was  just  what  I 
could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  rob  you  of." 

"Yes;  I  had  that." 

Morris  felt  it  to  be  a  considerable  damage  to  his 
cause  that  he  could  not  add  that  she  had  had  some- 
thing more  besides ;  for  it  is  needless  to  say  that  he 
had  learned  the  contents  of  Doctor  Sloper's  will.  He 
was,  nevertheless,  not  at  a  loss.  "  There  are  worse 
fates  than  that !"  he  exclaimed,  with  expression ;  and 
he  might  have  been  supposed  to  refer  to  his  own 
unprotected  situation.  Then  he  added,  with  a  deeper 
tenderness, "  Catherine,  have  you  never  forgiven  me  ?" 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  263 

"  I  forgave  you  years  ago,  but  it  is  useless  for  us 
to  attempt  to  be  friends." 

"  Not  if  we  forget  the  past.  We  have  still  a  fut- 
ure, thank  God !" 

"  I  can't  forget — I  don't  forget,"  said  Catherine. 
"  You  treated  me  too  badly.  I  felt  it  very  much ; 
I  felt  it  for  years."  And  then  she  went  on,  with  her 
wish  to  show  him  that  he  must  not  come  to  her 
this  way,  "  I  can't  begin  again — I  can't  take  it  up. 
Everything  is  dead  and  buried.  It  was  too  serious ; 
it  made  a  great  change  in  my  life.  I  never  expected 
to  see  you  here." 

"  Ah,  you  are  angry  !"  cried  Morris,  who  wished 
immensely  that  he  could  extort  some  flash  of  passion 
from  her  calmness.  In  that  case  he  might  hope. 

"  No,  I  am  not  angry.  Anger  does  not  last  that 
way  for  years.  But  there  are  other  things.  Im- 
pressions last,  when  they  have  been  strong.  But  I 
can't  talk." 

Morris  stood  stroking  his  beard,  with  a  clouded 
eye.  "  Why  have  you  never  married  ?"  he  asked, 
abruptly.  "  You  have  had  opportunities." 

"  I  didn't  wish  to  marry." 

"  Yes,  you  are  rich,  you  are  free ;  you  had  noth- 
ing to  gain." 

"  I  had  nothing  to  gain,"  said  Catherine. 

Morris  looked  vaguely  round  him,  and  gave  a  deep 
sigh.  "  Well,  I  was  in  hopes  that  we  might  still 
have  been  friends." 

"  I  meant  to  tell  you,  by  my  aunt,  in  answer  to 
your  message — if  you  had  waited  for  an  answer — 
that  it  was  unnecessary  for  you  to  come  in  that 
hope." 


264  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  Good-bye,  then,"  said  Morris.  "  Excuse  my  in- 
discretion." 

He  bowed,  and  she  turned  away — standing  there, 
averted,  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  for  some  mo- 
ments after  she  had  heard  him  close  the  door  of  the 
room. 

In  the  hall  he  found  Mrs.  Penniman,  fluttered  and 
eager;  she  appeared  to  have  been  hovering  there 
under  the  irreconcilable  promptings  of  her  curiosity 
and  her  dignity. 

"  That  was  a  precious  plan  of  yours !"  said  Morris, 
clapping  on  his  hat. 

"  Is  she  so  hard  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Penniman. 

"  She  doesn't  care  a  button  for  me — with  her  con- 
founded little  dry  manner." 

"  Was  it  very  dry  ?"  pursued  Mrs.  Penniman,  with 
solicitude. 

Morris  took  no  notice  of  her  question ;  he  stood 
musing  an  instant,  with  his  hat  on.  "  But  why  the 
deuce,  then,  would  she  never  marry  ?" 

"Yes  —  why  indeed?"  sighed  Mrs.  Penniman. 
And  then,  as  if  from  a  sense  of  the  inadequacy  of 
this  explanation,  "  But  you  will  not  despair — you 
will  come  back  ?" 

"  Come  back  ?  Damnation !"  And  Morris  Town- 
send  strode  out  of  the  house,  leaving  Mrs.  Penniman 
staring. 

Catherine,  meanwhile,  in  the  parlor,  picking  up 
her  morsel  of  fancy-work,  had  seated  herself  with  it 
again — for  life,  as  it  were. 

THE   END. 


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